OH,    SHOOT! 

Confessions  of  Two  Agitated  Sportsmen 


BOOKS  BY 
REX  BEACH 

FLOWING  GOLD 

OH,  SHOOT  1 

TOO  FAT  TO  FIGHT 

THE  WINDS  OF  CHANCE 

LAUGHING  BILL  HYDE 

RAINBOW'S  END 

THE  CRIMSON  GARDENIA  AND  OTHER 

TALES  OF  ADVENTURE 
HEART  OF  THE  SUNSET 
THE  AUCTION  BLOCK 
THE  IRON  TRAIL 
THE  NET 

THE  NE'ER-DO-WELL 
THE  SPOILERS 
THE  BARRIER 
THE  SILVER  HORDE 
GOING  SOME 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
[ESTABLISHED  1817) 


OH,    SHOOT! 


Confessions  of  An 


Agitated  Sportsman 


By 
REX    BEACH 

Author   of 

"THE  SPOILERS"  "THE  BARRIER" 
"THE   SILVER   HORDE"    sic. 

With  Illustrations  from  Photographs 
Taken  by  the  Author 


HARPER  y  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 


OH,  SHOO,- I 

Copyright,   IQJI,   by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

G-w 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE; 

I.  GEESE i 

II.  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT    .    .  39 

III.  THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 105 

IV.  ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR     .    .    .  141 

V.  MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO    ,  216 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

WE  MET  THE  CARAVAN  COMING  IN    ....        Frontispiece 

THERE  WERE  FIVE  OF  Us  IN  THE  PARTY — MAXI- 
MILIAN FOSTER  AND  GRANTLAND  RICE,  FEL- 
LOW SCRIBES,  AND  DUKE  AND  DUCHESS,  Two 
ENGLISH  SETTERS  THAT  WE  TOOK  ALONG 
TO  INVESTIGATE  THE  QUAIL  RESOURCES  OF 
THE  COUNTRY Facing  p.  14 

THIS  BOAT  WAS  ESPECIALLY  BUILT  FOR  HUNTING 
IN  SHALLOW  WATERS,  AND  WHILE  SHE  Is 
NOT  MUCH  TO  LOOK  AT,  SHE  Is  WARM  AND 
COMFORTABLE 15 

Ri  AND  NATHAN,  OUR  GUIDES.  BOTH  ARE  BANKS 
MEN,  BORN  AND  RAISED  CLOSE  TO  THE  HAT- 
TERAS  SURF 15 

WE  MANAGED  TO  COLLECT  A  FAIR  NUMBER  OF 

BIRDS "  22 

THE  HARBOR,  OCRACOKE,  PAMLICO  SOUND, 
WHICH  MARKS,  ROUGHLY,  THE  GOOSE'S 
SOUTHERN  LIMIT 23 

OCRACOKE,  CENTER  OF  THE  GOOSE-HUNTING  IN- 
DUSTRY, Is  A  QUAINT  NEW  ENGLAND  VIL- 
LAGE PITCHED  ON  THE  OUTER  RIM  OF  PAM- 
LICO SOUND 23 

POST  OFFICE,  OCRACOKE "          23 

FEEDING  THE  LIVE  DECOYS 26 

PUTTING  DOWN  A  BATTERY  RIG 27 

RAILROAD  CONSTRUCTION,  COPPER  RIVER  RAIL- 
ROAD    42 

vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FREIGHTING  CONSTRUCTION   SUPPLIES   UP  THE 

COPPER  RIVER Facing  p.    42 

CORDOVA,  THE  TOWN  WHICH  HAD  SPRUNG  UP 
AT  THE  TERMINUS  OF  MR.  HENEY'S  RAIL- 
ROAD. WHEN  ONLY  THIRTY  DAYS  OLD  IT 
HAD  TWENTY  SALOONS  AND  A  SAWMILL  .  .  43 

CAPTURE  OF  Two  BEAR  CUBS 46 

Two  BLACK  BEAR  CUBS 46 

WE  HAD  No  MEANS  OF  MEASURING  OUR  PRIZE, 

BUT  THE  CARCASS  WAS  TREMENDOUS    .    .  47 

THE  DISTANCE  FROM  FRED  STONE'S  Boor 
TRACKS  AND  His  SPENT  SHELLS  TO  THE 
CARCASS  WAS  A  SCANT  TWENTY  FEET  .  47 

WE  LOADED  A  SKIFF  UPON  ONE  OF  MR.  HENEY'S 
FLAT  CARS  AND  SAW  IT  SAFELY  INTO  THE 
MUDDY  WATERS  OF  THE  STREAM  ...  54 

TROUT  FISHING,  LAKE  EYAK 55 

THE  COPPER  RIVER  DELTA  Is  FULL  OF  GOOD 

CAMPING  PLACES  LIKE  THIS 62 

WE  WERE  SCRUPULOUSLY  NEAT  IN  OUR  HOUSE- 
KEEPING    63 

SUCH  A  PELT  FOR  SOFTNESS  AND  BEAUTY  I  HAVE 

SELDOM  SEEN 63 

CHILD'S  GLACIER,  A  TOWERING  WALL  OF  SOLID 

ICE 70 

ABERCROMBIE  CANON,  COPPER    RIVER,  NEAR 

THE  GLACIER 71 

LOWER  END  OF  CHILD'S  GLACIER 78 

ICE  BREAKING  OFF  CHILD'S  GLACIER,  COPPER 

RIVER,  ALASKA       79 

"BOILING  THE  KETTLE" 86 

"BEAR"  BROWN  AND  SKINS  FROM  ONE  HUNT    .  87 

ONE  OF  THE  PICTURES  WHICH  THE  DOCTOR  HAD 
CLANDESTINELY  SECURED  DURING  OFFICIAL 

VISITS no 

viii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THESE  KEYS  WERE  LIKE  CLEAN,  ORDERLY,  LIT- 
TLE PICNIC  GROUNDS  Facing  p.  1 1 1 

CARDI,  THE  "PLACE  OF  DEAD  BONES,"  Is  THE 
LARGEST  AND  BEST  VILLAGE  AT  THE  WEST- 
ERN END  OF  THE  ARCHIPELAGO  ....  118 

A  SAN  BLAS  VILLAGE  WITH  ITS  PALM-THATCHED 

HOUSES  AND  SOME  OF  ITS  INHABITANTS    .    .          "         119 

A  FRESH  WIND  WAS  BLOWING  WHEN  THE 
"  WISDOM  "  NOSED  OUT  THROUGH  THE 
BREAKWATER  AND  HEADED  TOWARD  SOUTH 
AMERICA "  122 

SEVERAL  DUGOUTS,  MANNED  BY  NAKED  BOYS, 

CIRCLED  Us  AT  A  RESPECTFUL  DISTANCE    .          "         122 

THE  START  OF  THE  RACE "         123 

A  SAN  BLAS  CANOE "         123 

Rows  OF  NAKED   BOYS  PERCHED  ALONG  THE 

RAILS  LIKE  BLACKBIRDS 126 

BY  THIS  TIME  THE  BOYS  HAD  ADOPTED  Us  AND 

MADE  THEMSELVES  MASTERS  OF  THE  SHIP  127 

WE  SPENT  MUCH  TIME  ASHORE  AND  EASILY  ES- 
TABLISHED FRIENDLY  RELATIONS  WITH  THE 
INHABITANTS  134 

A  PRIMITIVE  SAN  BLAS  CANE  MILL    ....          "         134 

OWING  TO  THEIR  DIMINUTIVE  SIZE,  IT  Is  DIFFI- 
CULT TO  DISTINGUISH  THE  WOMEN  FROM 
THE  GIRLS  EXCEPT  BY  THEIR  HAIR  ...  "  135 

THE  CROCODILES  ARE  INCREDIBLY  THICK  AND 

VERY  SIZABLE .  138 

WE  SUPPLIED  THE  VILLAGE  WITH  FISH,  Too, 
FOR  THE  STREAMS  WERE  CHOKED  WITH 
GIANT  SNAPPERS,  JEWFISH,  AND  TARPON  .  138 

WE  PUT  FULL  TRUST  IN  THESE  LITTLE  MEN 
WHOM  WE  FOLLOWED  INTO  WILDERNESSES 

AND  SWAMPS       139 

ix 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

WE  FISHED  THE  CARDI  RIVER  AND  WE  HUNTED 

IT Facing  p.    139 

THE  COUNTRY  NORTH  OF  THE  CANON  Is  COV- 
ERED BY  A  MAGNIFICENT  FOREST,  AND  A 
GOVERNMENT  RESTRICTION  AGAINST  HUNT- 
ING AND  TRAPPING  Is  MORE  OR  LESS  HON- 
ORED IN  THE  BREACH 142 

FACING  Us,  FROM  TWELVE  TO  TWENTY  MILES, 
STOOD  THE  NORTH  WALL,  OUR  DESTINA- 
TION    143 

WE   "WENT   OVER   THE  RIM"   FROM   BASS'S 

CAMP  150 

WE  BOOSTED  FRED  UP  TO  THE  PEAK  OF  THE 

ROCK,  WHERE  HE  BALANCED  DIZZILY       .       i   "         151 

LOOKING  UPRIVER  FROM  OPPOSITE  SIDE  OF  BASS'S 

FERRY 151 

THE  START.    "RARIN*  TO  Go" "         158 

THAT  FIRST  NIGHT  WE  CAMPED  AMONG  SOME 

BOWLDERS  NEAR  A  SPRING 159 

IT  WAS  HOT,  AND  THERE  WAS  SAND  IN  THE 

BUTTER 159 

THE  BOYS  SET  ABOUT  WINDING  IT  SLOWLY 
ONWARD  AND  UPWARD  BY  MAIN  STRENGTH 
AND  AWKWARDNESS 166 

THE  HORSE  KICKED  HIMSELF  FREE  OF  THE  BARS 

AND  HANGED  HIMSELF  IN  MID-AIR  .    .    .  166 

WITH  THE  AID  OF  Two  OTHER  HORSES  THE 
ANIMAL  WAS  DRAGGED  AND  ROLLED  UP 
THE  BANK  TO  SAFETY 167 

UNCLE  JIM  OWEN  AND  POT-HOUND,  WITH  INSET 
PICTURE  OF  POT-HOUND'S  SILVER-MOUNTED 
COLLAR 174 

FRED  AND  I  EXCHANGED  APPREHENSIVE 
GLANCES.  WE  COULD  NOT  POISON  THE 
DOG,  FOR  WE  HAD  NOTHING  WITH  Us 
MORE  DEADLY  THAN  EPSOM  SALTS  ...  175 

x 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  LIONESS  HAD  GONE  OVER  AT  A  FAVOR- 
ABLE SPOT Facing  p.  1 82 

STEEP  GOING "         183 

EVEN  AS  THE  LAST   KNOT  WAS  DRAWN  THE 

LIONESS  RECOVERED "         202 

AFTER  A  COUPLE  OF  HOURS  THE  YOUNGER  ONES 
GAVE  UP,  BUT  POT-HOUND  PERSEVERED  IN 
His  INVESTIGATIONS  "  203 

AT  TORRES  OUR  TRAIN  TOOK  ON  Two  AR- 
MORED CARS  "  218 

IN  GUAYMAS  ONE  GOT  AN  IMPRESSIVE  IDEA  OF 

MEXICO'S  PRESENT  STATE "         219 

NOWHERE  Is  THERE  A  MORE  DESOLATE  COAST 

THAN  THAT  OF  LOWER  CALIFORNIA       .    .          "         222 

UP  THE  COAST  WE  HOGGED,  TURNING  HAND- 
SPRINGS AROUND  ONE  SPOUTING  HEAD- 
LAND AFTER  ANOTHER "  223 

WHEN  OUR  BOAT  SAILED,  HER  TANKS  WERE 
FULL  AND  HER  DECKS  CROWDED  WITH 
STEEL  DRUMS "  230 

THE  GULF  Is,  IN  TRUTH,  A  GIGANTIC  FISH  TRAP          ' '         230 

OUR  FIRST  CAMPING  PLACE "         231 

QUEER  DESERT  TREES       "         238 

LOWER  CALIFORNIA  DESERT,  A  JUNGLE  OF  QUEER 

GROWTHS "         239 

CAVE   DWELLINGS,  LOWER  CALIFORNIA  ...  "         246 

WE  HUNG  OUR  FEET  OVER  THE  EDGE  OF  THE 
CLIFFS  AND  LET  THE  VIEW  SOAK  IN,  THEN 
COMBED  THE  COUNTRY  WITH  OUR  GLASSES  "  247 

EDDIE  WOULD  HAVE  MADE  A  FAIRLY  CONVINC- 
ING ABORIGINE  HAD  HE  NOT  INSISTED  UPON 
WEARING  His  RED-FLANNEL  UNDERGAR- 
MENTS    "  254 

xi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  DEER  LOOKED  SMALL  FROM  THE  Top  OF 
THE  HILL,  BUT  AFTER  HE  WAS  DRESSED 
HE  WAS  THE  SIZE  OF  A  HORSE  ....  Facing  p.  255 

I  WAS  READY  FOR  A  BATH  WHEN  I  REACHED 

THE  SHORE 255 

TYPES  OF  SERI  INDIANS 262 

THE  SERIS  PADDLED  ASHORE  TO  PREPARE  FOR 

Us 263 

THE  LIVING  QUARTERS  OF  THE  SERIS  WERE 
NOTHING  BUT  WINDBREAKS,  SMALL  BRUSH 
CORRALS,  AND  THERE  WAS  NOTHING  IN  THE 
VILLAGE  THAT  LOOKED  LIKE  A  ROOF  .  .  " 

ALL  SMILES,  WAITING  TO  BE  PHOTOGRAPHED    . 

THESE  SERIS  EVIDENTLY  WANTED  TO  BE  RE- 
MEMBERED BY  Us ,  .  .  .  274 

IT  WAS  QUEER  TO  FIND,  So  NEAR  TO  OUR  OWN 
BORDER,  A  PEOPLE  So  Low  DOWN  THE 
SCALE  OF  PROGRESS 275 

A  GROUP  OF  SERI  INDIAN  CHILDREN    ....          "        275 


OH,    SHOOT! 

Confessions  of  Two  Agitated  Sportsmen 


OH,    SHOOT! 

Confessions  of  Two  Agitated  Sportsmen 


GEESE 

MOST  men  enjoy  hunting,  or  would  if 
they  had  a  chance,  but  there  is  a  small, 
abnormal  minority  who  are  hopeless  addicts  to 
the  chase.  To  them  the  fiscal  year  begins 
with  the  opening  of  the  deer  season  or  the 
start  of  the  duck  flight,  and  ends  when  "birds 
and  quadrupeds  may  no  longer  be  legally 
possessed."  They  are  the  fellows  who  wrap 
their  own  fish  rods,  join  outing  associations, 
and  wear  buckskin  shirts  when  they  disap- 
pear into  the  trackless  wastes  of  Westchester 
County  for  the  club's  annual  potlatch  and 
big-game  lying  contests. 

To  this  class  I  belong.  I  offer  what  follows 
not  as  an  excuse,  but  as  a  plea  in  extenuation. 
It  is  a  feeble  effort  to  paint  the  optimistic  soul 


OH,  SHOOT! 

of  a  sportsman,  to  show  how  impossible  it  is  to 
prevent  him  from  having  a  good  time,  no 
matter  how  his  luck  breaks,  and,  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  to  answer  the  question,  "Why  is  a 
hunter?" 

There  is  no  satisfactory  answer  to  that 
query;  hunters  are  merely  born  that  way. 
Something  in  their  blood  manifests  itself  in 
regular  accord  with  the  signs  of  the  zodiac. 
In  my  case,  for  instance,  when  autumn  brings 
the  open  season,  I  suffer  a  complete  and  baf- 
fling change  of  disposition.  I  am  no  longer  the 
splendid,  upright  citizen  whose  Christian  vir- 
tues are  a  joy  to  his  neighbors  and  an  inspira- 
tion to  the  youth  of  his  community.  No.  I 
grow  furtive  and  restless;  honest  toil  irks  me. 
I  begin  to  chase  sparrows  and  point  meadow 
larks  and  bark  at  rabbit  tracks.  I  fall  ill 
and  manifest  alarming  symptoms  which  de- 
mand change  of  climate  and  surcease  from 
the  grinding  routine.  I  sigh  and  complain.  I 
moan  in  my  sleep  and  my  appetite  flags.  I 
allow  myself  to  be  discovered  dejectedly  fond- 
ling a  favorite  fowling  piece  or  staring,  with 
the  drooping  eyes  of  a  Saint  Bernard,  at  some 
moth-eaten  example  of  taxidermic  atrocity. 
The  only  book  that  stirs  my  languid  soul  is 


GEESE 

that  thrilling  work,  Syllabus  of  the  Fish  and 
Game  Regulations. 

So  adept  have  I  become  at  simulating  the 
signs  of  overwork  that  seldom  am  I  denied  a 
hunting  trip  to  save  my  tottering  health. 
Mind  you,  I  do  not  advocate  deceit.  I  abhor 
hypocrisy  in  the  home,  and  I  merely  recount 
my  own  method  of  procedure  for  the  benefit  of 
such  fellow  huntsmen  as  are  married  and  may 
be  in  need  of  first  aid. 

I  was  suffering  the  ravages  of  suppressed 
desires,  common  to  my  kind,  when,  several 
autumns  ago,  a  friend  told  me  about  a  form  of 
wild-goose  shooting  in  vogue  on  the  outer 
shoals  of  Pamlico  Sound,  North  Carolina,  and 
utterly  stampeded  my  processes  of  orderly 
thought. 

"They  use  rolling  blinds  on  the  sand  bars," 
he  told  me.  "They  put  down  live  decoys,  a 
couple  hundred  yards  away,  then,  when  the 
geese  come  in,  they  roll  the  blind  up  to  them." 

I  assured  him  that  his  story  was  interesting 
but  absurd.  Having  hunted  Canada  honkers, 
I  knew  them  to  be  suspicious  birds,  skeptical 
of  the  plainest  circumstantial  evidence  and 
possessed  of  all  the  distrust  of  an  income-tax 
examiner. 

3 


OH,   SHOOT! 

"You  don't  move  while  they're  looking," 
my  informant  told  me.  "When  they  rubber, 
you  hold  your  breath  and,  if  religiously  in- 
clined, you  pray.  When  they  lower  their 
heads,  you  push  the  blind  forward.  A  goose 
is  a  poor  judge  of  distance,  and  you  can  roll 
right  up  to  him  if  you  know  how." 

I  didn't  believe  him ;  but  the  next  day  I  was 
en  route  to  North  Carolina,  and  I  have  been 
back  there  every  year  since.  I  have  shot 
from  rolling  blinds,  stake  blinds,  and  bat- 
teries. Sometimes  I  have  good  luck,  again  I 
do  not.  But  nothing  destroys  my  enjoyment, 
and  every  trip  is  a  success.  Once  I  am  away 
with  a  gun  on  my  arm,  I  become  a  nomad,  a 
Siwash;  I  return  home  only  when  my  sense 
of  guilt  becomes  unbearable  and  when  the 
warmth  of  my  wife's  letters  approaches  zero. 

And  I  have  done  well  down  there.  At  first, 
I  went  alone,  traveled  light,  and  spent  little 
money.  Now  I  take  friends  with  me ;  I  keep 
a  well-equipped  hunting  boat  there  the  year 
round;  I  stay  a  long  time,  and  I  spend  sums 
vastly  larger  than  I  can  afford.  A  brace  of 
ducks  used  to  cost  me  perhaps  ten  dollars,  in 
the  raw;  now  they  stand  me  several  times 
that,  exclusive  of  general  overhead.  It  shows 

4 


GEESE 

what  any  persistent  sportsman  may  accom- 
plish even  with  a  poor  start.  Perhaps  no 
habitual  hunter  pays  more  for  his  entertain- 
ment than  I  do,  and,  figuring  losses  in  business, 
time  wasted,  etc.,  etc.,  I  truthfully  can  say 
that  I  enjoy  the  sport  of  kings. 

This  year  there  were  five  of  us  in  the  party — 
Maximilian  Foster  and  Grantland  Rice,  fellow 
scribes,  and  Duke  and  Duchess,  two  English 
setters  of  breeding  that  we  took  along  to 
investigate  the  quail  resources  of  the  country. 

Max  had  made  the  trip  once  before;  so  he 
needed  no  urging  to  go  again — only  an  excuse. 
We  hit  upon  a  good  one.  He  is  an  abandoned 
trout  fisherman  and  he  ties  his  own  flies. 
Feathers  are  expensive  and  hard  to  get.  Why 
not  lay  in  a  good  supply?  It  was  the  best  we 
could  think  of  at  short  notice;  so  he  went 
home  to  try  it  out. 

There  was  every  reason  why  Grant  snould 
remain  at  his  desk,  but  we  argued  that  there 
might  well  be  problems  of  trajectory  involved 
in  goose  shooting  which  would  revolutionize 
the  golf  industry  if  thoughtfully  studied.  Who 
could  better  investigate  this  promising  field 
than  a  recognized  golf  paranoiac  like  him?  We 
had  only  to  suggest  this  line  of  thought ;  Grant 


OH,  SHOOT! 

rose  hungrily  to  the  bait  and  darted  with  it 
into  the  uptown  Subway.  He  argued  where 
it  would  do  the  most  good,  and  to  such  effect 
that  he  promised  to  follow  us  a  week  later. 

Now,  a  word  about  Duke  and  Duchess.  In 
my  time  I  have  owned  many  dogs,  for  a  dog 
is  something  I  lack  the  force  of  character  to 
refuse.  Anybody  can  give  me  any  kind  of  dog 
at  any  time,  and  I  am  grateful — to  the  point  of 
tears.  That  is  how  these  two  came  to  our 
house — as  gift  dogs — and  they  made  me  very 
happy  for  a  while,  because  I  had  always 
wanted  a  pair  of  setters.  Frankly,  however, 
they  abused  their  welcome,  for  there  has  sel- 
dom been  merely  a  pair  of  them.  I  have  pre- 
sented setter  puppies  to  my  relatives  and  to 
my  friends.  I  am  now  preparing  a  gift  list  of 
my  business  acquaintances  and  fellow  club 
members,  but  I  am  slowly  losing  ground,  and 
my  place  grows  more  and  more  to  resemble  a 
Bide-a-Wee  Home. 

I  had  never  been  able  to  hunt  over  this  pair, 
for  whenever  I  was  ready  for  a  trip,  household 
duties  prevented  Duchess  from  going  along,  or 
else  I  foresaw  the  necessity  of  taking  with  me 
a  large  crate  in  which  to  ship  back  her  excess 
profits.  This  time,  however,  conditions  ap- 

6 


GEESE 

peared  to  be  propitious,  so  Max  and  I  decided 
to  do  upland  shooting  while  waiting  for  Grant 
to  join  us,  and  then  wind  up  our  hunt  with  a 
gigantic  offensive  against  the  ducks  and  geese. 
After  watching  Duke  and  Duchess  point  some 
of  my  pigeons  and  retrieve  corncobs,  Max  and 
I  decided  they  were  natural  game  sleuths  and 
could  detect  a  bird  in  almost  any  disguise. 
If  a  quail  hoped  to  escape  them,  it  would  have 
to  wear  hip  boots  and  a  beard. 

Time  was,  not  long  ago,  when  travel  was  no 
great  hardship.  But  all  that  is  changed. 
Government  operation  of  the  railroads  worked 
wonders,  even  during  the  brief  time  we 
had  it.  For  instance,  it  restored  all  the 
thrill  and  suspense,  all  the  old  exciting  un- 
certainty of  travel  during  the  Civil  War  wood- 
burning  days.  No  longer  does  one  encounter 
on  the  part  of  employees  that  un-American 
servility  which  made  travel  so  popular  with 
the  parasitic  rich.  Real  democracy  prevails; 
train  crews  are  rough,  gruff,  and  unmannerly, 
and  even  the  lowly  porter  has  learned  the  sov- 
ereign dignity  of  labor— and  maintains  it.  Nor 
is  there  now  any  difference  in  the  accommoda- 
tions on  the  jerkwater  feeders  and  the  main 
lines,  all  that  having  yielded  to  the  glorious 

7 


OH,  SHOOT! 

leveling  process.  Train  schedules  are  ingen- 
iously arranged  for  the  benefit  of  innkeepers  at 
junction  points,  and  the  last  named  are  main- 
tained for  the  purpose  of  allowing  one  train 
to  escape  before  another  can  interfere  with  it. 

Having  missed  connections  wherever  prac- 
tical, and  taken  the  dogs  out  for  a  walk  in 
several  towns  of  which  we  had  never  heard, 
Max  and  I  arrived,  in  due  course,  at  Beaufort, 
only  twelve  hours  late.  We  were  a  bit  weak 
from  hunger  and  considerably  bruised  from 
futile  attempts  to  battle  our  way  into  the 
dining  car,  but  otherwise  we  were  little  the 
worse  for  the  journey. 

The  guides  were  waiting  with  the  boat,  but 
they  bore  bad  news. 

"There's  plenty  of  geese  on  the  banks,"  Ri 
told  us,  "but  we've  had  summer  weather  and 
the  tides  are  so  low  there's  no  shooting." 

Seldom  does  a  hunter  make  a  long  trip  and 
encounter  weather  or  game  conditions  that 
are  anything  except  unparalleled.  I  have 
learned  long  since  to  anticipate  the  announce- 
ment that  all  would  have  been  well  had  I 
arrived  three  weeks  earlier  or  had  I  postponed 
my  coming  for  a  similar  length  of  time ;  there- 
fore we  ignored  Ri's  evil  tidings,  pointed  to 

8 


GEESE 

Duke  and  Duchess,  and  forecast  a  bad  week 
for  any  quail  that  were  unwise  enough  to 
remain  in  the  county. 

Both  Ri  and  Nathan  are  banks  men,  born 
and  raised  close  to  the  Hatteras  surf;  they 
know  nothing  of  quail  hunting,  so  we  blue- 
printed it  for  them  on  the  way  to  the  dock. 

"High-schooled  dogs  like  these  are  almost 
human,"  we  explained.  "They  are  trained  to 
pay  no  attention  to  anything  except  game 
birds,  but,  with  respect  to  them,  their  intelli- 
gence is  uncanny,  their  instinct  unerring. 
They  will  quarter  a  field  on  the  run,  pick  up 
the  scent  of  a  covey,  wheel  and  work  up  wind 
to  a  point.  When  they  come  to  a  stand,  you 
know  you've  got  quail.  You  walk  up,  give 
them  the  word  to  flush ;  then  they  retrieve  the 
dead  birds  and  lay  them  at  your  feet  without 
marring  a  feather.  It's  beautiful  work." 

While  we  were  in  the  midst  of  this  tribute, 
Duke,  whose  leash  I  had  removed,  squeezed 
out  through  the  picket  fence  of  a  back  yard 
with  the  palpitating  remains  of  a  white  pullet 
in  his  mouth.  He  was  proud;  he  was  atrem- 
ble  with  the  ardor  of  the  chase;  the  irate 
owner  of  the  deceased  fowl  was  at  his  heels, 
brandishing  a  hoe. 

9 


OH,   SHOOT' 

I  settled  with  the  outraged  citizen;   then  I 
engaged  Duke  in  a  tug  of  war  for  the  corpus 
delicti.    It  was  a  strictly  fresh  pullet;   there 
was  nothing  cold  storage  about  it,   for  it 
stretched.     Meanwhile,   Max  explained  how 
to  break  a  dog  of  chicken-stealing. 

"Tie  the  dead  bird  round  his  neck  where  he 
can't  get  at  it.  That  will  cure  him." 

II  But  why  cure  him?"  Ri  inquired,  earnestly. 
"Seems  like  you'd  ought  to  encourage  a  habit 
of  that  kind.     Them  dogs  is  worth  money!  " 

Duke  and  Duchess  were  much  interested  in 
the  boat.  While  we  unpacked,  they  explored 
it  from  end  to  end ;  then  Duchess  went  out  on 
deck,  tried  to  point  a  school  of  mullet,  and 
fell  overboard.  Nathan  retrieved  her  with  a 
boat  hook;  she  came  streaming  into  the 
cabin,  shook  herself  thoroughly  over  my  open 
steamer  trunk,  then,  unobserved,  climbed  into 
my  berth  and  pulled  the  covers  up  around 
her  chin.  She  has  a  long,  silky,  expensive 
coat,  and  it  dries  slowly;  but  she  liked  my 
bed  and  spent  most  of  a  restless  night  trying 
to  blot  herself  upon  my  chest. 

I  did  not  sleep  well.  No  one  can  enjoy 
unbroken  repose  so  long  as  a  wet  dog  insists 
upon  sleeping  inside  the  bosom  of  his  pajamas. 

to 


GEESE 

I  arose  at  dawn  with  a  hollow  cough  and  all 
the  premonitory  symptoms  of  pneumonia,  but 
Duchess  appeared  to  be  none  the  worse  for  her 
wetting,  and  we  felt  a  great  relief.  It  would 
have  been  a  sad  interruption  to  our  outing 
had  either  dog  fallen  ill. 

That  day,  while  the  boat  was  being  out- 
fitted, Max  and  I  hired  an  automobile  and 
went  out  to  start  a  rolling  barrage  against  the 
quail.  The  dogs  were  shivering  with  excite- 
ment when  we  put  them  into  the  first  field, 
but  they  had  nothing  on  us,  for  few  thrills 
exceed  that  of  the  hunter  who,  after  a  year 
indoors,  slips  a  pair  of  shells  into  his  gun  and 
says,  ''Let's  go." 

But  within  a  half  hour  we  knew  we  had 
pulled  a  flivver.  Out  of  the  entire  state  of 
North  Carolina  we  had  selected  the  one  sec- 
tion where  big,  inch-long  cockleburs  were  too 
thick  for  dogs  to  work.  Nothing  less  than  a 
patent-leather  dachshund  could  have  lived  in 
those  fields.  In  no  time  Duke  and  Duchess 
were  burred  up  so  solidly  they  could  hardly 
move.  They  were  bleeding;  their  spun-silk 
coats  were  matted  and  rolled  until  their  skins 
were  as  tight  as  drum  heads;  their  plumy  tails 
were  like  baseball  bats,  and  they  weighed  so 

2  II 


OH,  SHOOT! 

much  that  their  knees  buckled  and  they 
looked  as  if  they  were  about  to  jump. 

They  put  up  a  covey  or  two,  but  it  became 
a  question  either  of  removing  their  coats  in 
solid  blankets,  as  a  whale  is  stripped  of  its 
blubber,  or  of  patiently  freeing  them,  one  burr 
at  a  time — an  all-day  task — so  we  went  back 
to  the  car  and  sought  a  snipe  marsh. 

Snipe  marshes  are  wet,  and  the  mud  is 
usually  deep,  dark,  and  sticky.  One  either 
stands  or  sits  in  it,  and  to  get  the  fullest  enjoy- 
ment from  the  sport  one  should  forget  his 
rubber  boots.  This  we  had  done;  hence  we 
were  pretty  squashy  when  we  got  back  into 
the  automobile  about  dark.  We  slowly  froze 
on  the  way  to  town,  but  before  we  had  hoarsed 
up  too  badly  to  speak,  we  agreed  that  it  had 
been  a  great  day. 

I  picked  burrs  most  of  that  night.  Along 
toward  morning,  however,  I  realized  that  it 
was  a  hopeless  task.  I  had  hair  all  over  the 
cabin;  my  fingers  were  bleeding,  Duke  and 
Duchess  were  upon  the  verge  of  hysteria,  and 
whenever  we  looked  at  each  other  we  showed 
our  teeth  and  growled.  So  I  decided  to  clip 
them.  But  it  is  no  part  of  a  vacation  to  shear 
a  pair  of  fretful  canines,  size  six  and  seven- 

12 


GEESE 

eighths,  with  a  pair  of  dull  manicure  scissors. 
Breakfast  found  those  dogs  looking  as  if  they 
had  on  tights.  I  was  haggard,  but  grimly 
determined  to  enjoy  another  day  in  the  glori- 
ous open  if  only  I  could  stay  awake. 

It  was  no  use  trying  to  hunt  here,  however; 
so  I  gave  the  word  to  up  anchor  and  hie 
away  out  of  the  cocklebur  belt. 

So  far  as  I  can  discover,  a  boat  owner  has 
one  privilege,  expensive  but  gratifying;  he 
can,  when  the  spirit  moves  him,  say,  "Let  us 
go  away  from  here,"  and  sometimes  the  boat 
goes.  I  voiced  that  lordly  order,  ran  Duchess 
out  of  my  bed,  and  lay  down  for  a  nap.  But 
not  to  sleep.  Ri  and  Nathan  began  an  intri- 
cate and  noisy  job  of  steam  fitting  in  the  en- 
gine room.  Now  and  then  the  motor  joined 
them,  only  to  miss,  cough,  and  die  in  their 
arms.  By  and  by  I  heard  echoes  of  profanity; 
so  I  arose  to  investigate  the  nature  of  the 
difficulty. 

Max  was  frowning  at  the  engine;  Ri  was 
massaging  its  forehead  with  a  handful  of 
waste;  Nathan  was  spasmodically  wrenching 
hisses  out  of  it  with  the  starting  bar.  He 
raised  a  streaming  face  to  say: 

"She  never  balked  on  us  before." 
13 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Ri  agreed: 

"She  never  missed  an  explosion  coming 
over." 

"Sure  you've  got  gas?"  I  hopefully  in- 
quired. This  is  my  first  question  in  cases  of 
engine  trouble. 

They  were  sure;  so  I  returned  to  my  bunk 
and  ran  Duchess  out  of  my  warm  place.  Had 
they  answered  my  inquiry  in  the  negative,  I 
could  have  instantly  diagnosed  the  case,  but 
when  an  engine  has  gasoline  and  still  refuses 
to  run,  I  delve  no  deeper.  I  respect  its  wishes. 

Another  half  hour  passed ;  then  I  went  for- 
ward and  asked  if  there  was  plenty  of  spark. 
This  is  my  second  question,  and  it  leaves  me 
clean.  But  there  was  spark  enough,  so  I 
effaced  myself  once  for  all  and  again  disturbed 
Duchess  just  as  she  had  made  an  igloo  of  my 
bedclothes.  This  time  I  dozed  off,  lulled  by 
sounds  which  indicated  that  Nathan  haa 
begun  a  major  operation  of  some  sort,  with 
the  others  passing  instruments  and  counting 
sponges. 

Running  footsteps  roused  me.  Max  was 
removing  a  fire  extinguisher  from  its  rack 
when  I  opened  my  eyes.  He  was  calm;  noth- 
ing to  worry  about  except  a  small  conflagra- 

14 


DUCHESS 


GRANTLAND   RICE  MAXIMILIAN   FOSTER 

There  were  five  of  us  in  the  party — Maximilian  Foster  and  Grantland  Rice    fellow 

scribes,  and  Duke  and  Duchess,  two  English  setters  that  we  took  along  to  investigate 

the  quail  resources  of  the  country 


THIS  BOAT  WAS  ESPECIALLY  BUILT  FOR  HUNTING  IN  SHALLOW  WATERS,  AND 
WHILE  SHE  IS   NOT  MUCH  TO  LOOK  AT,   SHE  IS   WARM   AND   COMFORTABLE 


RI  AND  NATHAN,  OUR  GUIDES.      BOTH  ARE  BANKS  MEN,  BORN  AND  RAISED 
CLOSE   TO   THE   HATTERAS    SURF 


GEESE 

tion  under  the  engine-room  floor.  If  we 
worked  fast,  we  might  save  a  part  of  the 
ship,  and  wasn't  it  fortunate  that  we  were 
still  tied  up  to  the  dock? 

Contrary  to  expectations,  we  managed  to 
put  out  the  blaze,  after  which  we  found  that 
all  our  motor  needed  was  a  cozy  little  fire  in 
its  living  room  to  take  the  chill  out  of  the  air, 
for  when  we  turned  it  over  it  went  to  work 
in  the  most  cheerful  spirit. 

That  afternoon  we  hunted  farther  up  the 
sound,  but  what  quail  we  raised  were  in  im- 
possible thickets  and  the  snipe  on  the  marshes 
had  gone  visiting  over  the  week  end.  As  we 
pulled  out  at  daybreak  on  the  following 
morning,  we  ran  aground  on  a  falling  tide  and 
stuck  there. 

Some  trips  seem  to  have  a  jinx  on  them. 
John  W.  Jonah  appears  to  keep  step  right  up 
to  the  finish.  After  laboring  long  and  blas- 
phemously in  a  vain  effort  to  get  afloat,  the 
unwelcome  suspicion  entered  our  minds  that 
this  was  such  a  one. 

I  had  built  this  boat  especially  for  hunting 
in  these  shallow  waters,  and  while  she  is  not 
much  to  look  at,  she  is  warm  and  comfortable, 
and  it  is  Ri's  boast  that  she  is  the  only  fifty- 
is 


OH,  SHOOT! 

foot  craft  in  existence  that  can  navigate  on  a 
heavy  frost  or  a  light  dew.  But  that  is  an 
exaggeration,  as  we  discovered  when,  finally, 
we  were  forced  to  go  overboard,  regardless  of 
the  weather,  and  boost  her  off  by  main 
strength.  Then  we  learned  that  she  had  been 
cunningly  designed  to  draw  just  enough  water 
so  as  to  thoroughly  wet  us,  regardless  of  the 
height  of  our  waders.  But  the  experience 
benefited  our  colds;  it  did  them  a  world  of 
good  and  practically  renewed  their  youth. 

Max  and  I  tested  out  the  game  resources  of 
several  sections  of  that  shore  on  the  way  to. 
Ocracoke,  but  instead  of  shipping  quail  home 
to  our  expectant  friends,  we  had  hard  work  to 
get  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together, 
and  those  few,  of  course,  we  could  neither 
taste  nor  smell — our  colds  were  doing  so  well. 
Always  there  was  some  good  reason  why  we 
had  shot  nothing  to-day  but  had  high  hopes 
for  the  morrow;  Duke  and  Duchess  began  to 
regard  the  whole  expedition  as  a  hoax  on  them, 
and  spent  their  time  collecting  ticks  for  me  to 
remove  during  the  evening.  Nevertheless, 
the  open  life  was  having  its  effect  upon  Max 
and  me.  We  had  arrived  soft,  pallid,  gas- 
bleached,  our  bones  afflicted  with  city-bred 

16 


GEESE 

aches  and  pains;  after  a  week  spent  on  waist- 
deep  sand  bars,  in  damp  marshes  and  draughty 
fields,  we  were  practically  bedridden. 

Ocracoke,  center  of  the  goose-hunting  in- 
dustry, is  a  quaint  New  England  village 
pitched  on  the  outer  rim  of  Pamlico  Sound, 
and  it  hovers  around  a  tiny  circular  lagoon. 
The  houses  are  scattered  among  wind-twisted 
cedars  or  thickets  of  juniper  and  sedge,  and 
most  of  them  possess  two  outstanding  ad- 
juncts— a  private  graveyard  and  a  decoy  pen. 
All  male  inhabitants  above  the  age  of  nine  are 
experts  on  internal-combustion  engines,  for 
motor  boats  are  everywhere  except  in  the  back 
yards.  Of  distinctive  landmarks  there  are 
four — one  lighthouse,  one  colored  man,  and 
two  Methodist  churches.  Ocracoke  has  tried 
other  negroes,  but  likes  this  one,  and  as  for 
religion,  it  will  probably  build  another  Metho- 
dist church  when  prices  get  back  to  normal. 

Now,  for  the  benefit  of  any  reader  genuinely 
in  quest  of  information,  a  word  as  to  the  kind 
of  hunting  here  in  vogue  and  the  methods 
involved.  First,  understand  that  this  stormy 
Hatteras  region  is  the  Palm  Beach  of  the 
Canada  goose  and  his  little  cousin  the  brant. 
Ducks  winter  all  along  the  Atlantic  coast,  but 

17 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Pamlico  Sound  marks,  roughly,  the  goose's 
southern  limit.  Here  each  wary  old  gander 
pilots  his  family;  here  he  and  his  mate  watch 
their  young  folks  make  social  engagements 
for  the  following  season. 

There  is  no  marsh  or  pond  shooting,  for 
the  wild  fowl  frequent  the  shallow  waters  of 
the  sound  and  it  is  necessary  to  hunt  from 
rolling  blinds,  stake  blinds,  or  batteries.  The 
rolling  blind  I  have  described — it  is  used  only 
on  cold,  drizzly  days  in  the  late  season  when 
the  geese  have  chilblains  and  gather  on  the 
dry  bars  to  compare  frost  bites.  A  stake 
blind  resembles  a  pulpit  raised  upon  four 
posts,  and  is  useful  mainly  in  decoying  inex- 
perienced Northern  hunters.  Green  sports- 
men stool  well  to  stake  blinds,  for  they  are 
comfortable,  but  a  wise  gunner  shies  at  them 
as  does  a  gander.  He  knows  that  the  real 
thing  is  a  battery. 

This  latter  device  may  be  described  as  a  sort 
of  coffin,  but  lacking  in  the  creature  comforts  of 
a  casket.  It  is  a  narrow,  water-tight  box  with 
a  flush  deck  about  two  feet  wide,  to  three 
sides  of  which  are  hinged  large  folding  wings  of 
cloth  or  sacking  stretched  upon  a  light  wooden 
framework.  It  is  painted  an  inconspicuous 

18 


GEESE 

color;  heavy  weights  sink  it  so  low  that  its 
decks  are  awash.  The  sportsman  lies  at  full 
length  in  it,  and  his  body  is  thus  really  be- 
neath the  level  of  the  water.  When  it  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  couple  hundred  dancing  decoys, 
the  hunter  is  effectually  hidden  from  all  but 
high-flying  birds.  To  such  as  fly  low,  the  rig 
is  a  snare  and  a  delusion ;  not  unless  they  flare 
high  enough  to  get  a  duck's-eye  view  do  they 
see  the  ace-in-the-hole,  and  then  it  is  usually 
too  late. 

Battery  shooting  requires  some  little  prac- 
tice and  experience.  One  must  begin  by 
learning  to  endure  patiently  the  sensations  of 
ossification,  for  to  rest  one's  aching  frame  even 
briefly  by  sitting  up,  or  to  so  much  as  raise 
one's  head  for  a  good  look  about,  is  a  high 
crime  and  a  misdemeanor.  It  completely 
ruins  the  whole  day  for  the  guides,  who  are 
comfortably  anchored  off  to  leeward  in  the 
tender,  and  affords  them  the  opportunity  of 
saying,  later: 

"You  can't  expect  'em  to  decoy  to  a  lump. 
If  you'd  of  kep'  down,  you'd  of  got  fifty  birds 
to-day." 

And  that  is  not  the  only  discomfort.  All 
batteries  are  too  small,  and  some  of  them  leak 

19 


OH,  SHOOT! 

in  the  small  of  the  back.  If  the  wind  shifts  or 
blows  up,  they  sink  before  the  guides  arrive. 
For  years  I  tried  to  adapt  myself  to  the  exist- 
ing models,  but  failed.  I  fasted  until  my  hips 
narrowed  to  an  AA  last;  I  wore  the  hair  off 
the  top  of  my  head;  my  body  became  rect- 
angular, and  still  I  did  not  fit.  I  have  had 
rubber-booted  guides  stand  upon  my  abdomen 
and  stamp  me  into  my  mold,  as  the  barefoot 
maidens  of  Italy  tread  the  autumn  vintage, 
but,  no  matter  how  well  they  wedged  me  in, 
some  part  of  me,  sooner  or  later,  slipped. 
The  damp  salt  air  swelled  me,  perhaps;  any- 
how, I  bulged  until  from  a  distance  I  looked 
like  a  dead  porpoise,  and  the  ducks  avoided 
me. 

Tiring  of  this,  I  had  a  large  box  built.  I 
equipped  it  with  a  rubber  mattress  and  pillow, 
and  now  I  shoot  in  Oriental  luxury.  But, 
even  under  favorable  conditions,  to  correctly 
time  incoming  birds,  to  rise  up  and  "meet 
them"  at  precisely  the  right  instant,  is  a  mat- 
ter of  considerable  nicety.  One  must  shoot 
sitting,  which  is  a  trick  in  itself,  especially 
on  the  back  hand,  and  ducks  do  not  remain 
stationary  'when  surprised  by  the  apparition 
of  a  magnified  jack-in-the-box.  They  are 

20 


GEESE 

reputed  to  travel  at  ninety  miles  an  hour, 
when  hitting  on  all  four,  but  that  is  too  con- 
servative. Start  the  goose  flesh  on  a  teal's 
neck,  for  instance,  and  he  will  leave  your 
vicinity  so  fast  that  a  load  of  shot  needs  short 
pants  and  running  shoes  to  overtake  him. 

I  have  lain  in  a  double  box  alongside  of 
experienced  field  shots  and  picked  up  many 
valuable  additions  to  my  vocabulary  of  epi- 
thets. I  have  seen  nice,  well-bred,  Christian 
gentlemen  grind  their  teeth,  throw  their  shells 
overboard,  and  send  for  better  loads,  even 
smash  their  guns  in  profane  and  impotent 
rage.  That  is,  I  have  seen  them  perform 
thus  when  I  myself  was  not  stone  blind  with 
fury. 

We  shot  for  a  couple  of  days,  off  Ocracoke, 
while  we  were  waiting  for  Grant,  but  the 
weather  was  warm  and  we  had  little  luck; 
then  the  bottom  fell  out  of  the  glass  and,  in 
high  hopes  of  a  norther,  we  ran  up  the  banks 
to  our  favorite  hunting  grounds.  As  we 
pulled  into  our  anchorage,  the  bars  were  black 
with  wild  fowl;  through  our  field  glasses  we 
could  see  thousands,  tens  of  thousands,  of 
resting  geese;  up  toward  Hatteras  Inlet  the 
sky  was  smudged  with  smoky  streamers  which 

21 


OH,  SHOOT! 

we  knew  to  be  wheeling  clouds  of  redheads. 
Before  we  had  been  at  rest  a  half  hour,  the 
wind  hauled  and  came  whooping  out  of  the 
north,  bearing  a  cold,  driving  rain;  so  we 
shook  hands  all  around.  All  that  is  necessary 
for  good  shooting  on  Pamlico  is  bad  weather. 
It  looked  as  if  we  had  buried  our  jinx  once 
for  all. 

Our  party  had  grown,  for  we  had  picked 
up  the  hunting  rigs  at  Ocracoke — they  were 
moored  astern  of  us,  launches,  battery  boats, 
and  decoy  skiffs  streaming  out  like  the  tail  of 
a  comet.  All  that  day  and  the  next  we 
watched  low-flying  strings  of  geese  and  ragged 
flocks  of  ducks  beating  past  us,  while  we  told 
stories  or  conducted  simple  experiments  in 
probability  and  chance.  In  the  latter  I  was 
unsuccessful,  as  usual,  €or  I  simply  cannot 
become  accustomed  to  the  high  cost  of  two 
small  pair. 

The  second  morning  brought  a  slight  better- 
ment of  conditions;  so  we  set  out  early,  Max 
in  search  of  shelter  behind  a  marshy  islet, 
while  I  hit  for  the  outer  reefs.  After  several 
attempts,  Ri  finally  found  a  spot  where  a 
mile  of  shoals  had  flattened  the  sea  sufficiently 
to  promise  some  hope  of  "getting  down." 

22 


THE  HARBOR,  OCRACOKE,  PAMLICO  SOUND,  WHICH  MARKS,  ROUGHLY. 
THE   GOOSE'S   SOUTHERN   LIMIT 


OCRACOKE,   CENTER   OF   THE   GOOSE-HUNTING   INDUSTRY,    IS   A   QUAINT 
NEW  ENGLAND  VILLAGE  PITCHED  ON  THE  OUTER  RIM  OF  PAMLICO  SOUND 


POST   OFFICE,    OCRACOKE 


GEESE 

While  we  were  placing  the  battery,  Grant- 
land  Rice  arrived  in  a  small  boat  from  Ocra- 
coke.  He  was  drenched;  he  had  been  four 
days  en  route  from  New  York,  and  he  was 
about  fed  up  on  rough  travel.  Through 
numb,  blue  lips  he  chattered,  "You're  harder 
to  find  than  Stanley." 

I  directed  him  to  the  houseboat  and  told 
him  where  to  obtain  comfort  and  warmth — 
third  bureau  drawer,  left-hand  corner,  but 
be  sure  to  cork  it  up  when  through — then 
explained  that  Max  had  put  down  a  double 
box  and  was  waiting  for  him. 

"The  weather  to  kill  geese  is  weather  to 
kill  men,"  I  assured  him.  "You're  in  luck  to 
arrive  during  a  norther  like  this." 

"Any  nursing  facilities  aboard  the  boat?" 
Grant  wanted  to  know. 

I  assured  him  with  pride  that  we  were 
equipped  to  take  care  of  almost  anything  up 
to  double  pneumonia,  and  that  if  worse  came 
to  worst  and  his  lungs  filled  up,  we  could  run 
him  over  to  the  mainland,  where  he  could 
probably  get  in  touch  with  a  hospital  by  mail. 

My  battery  managed  to  live,  with  the  lead 
wash  strips  turned  up,  but  the  gale  drove  foam 
and  spray  over  me  in  such  quantities  that  I 

23 


OH,  SHOOT! 

was  soon  numb  and  wet — the  normal  state  for 
a  battery  hunter.  Members  of  the  Greely 
expedition  doubtless  suffered  some  discom- 
forts, and  the  retreat  from  Serbia  must  have 
been  trying,  but  for  loo-per-cent-perfect  ex- 
posure give  me  a  battery  in  stormy  winter 
weather. 

However,  I  managed  to  collect  a  fair  number 
of  birds  before  dusk,  when,  in  answer  to  my 
feeble  signals,  the  guides  rescued  me.  They 
seized  me  by  my  brittle  ears,  raised  me  stiffly 
to  my  heels,  then  slid  me,  head  first,  into  the 
tiny  cabin  of  the  launch,  as  stokers  shove  cord- 
wood  into  a  boiler.  By  the  time  we  got  back 
to  the  boat  I  could  bend  my  larger  joints 
slightly  and  I  no  longer  gave  off  a  metallic 
sound  when  things  fell  on  me. 

The  other  boys  had  not  fared  so  well.  They 
had  been  drowned  out,  their  battery  had  been 
sunk  without  trace,  and  they  had  nothing  to 
show  for  their  day's  sport  except  a  clothes  line 
full  of  steaming  garments  and  a  nice  pair  of 
congestive  chills.  Otherwise  it  had  been  a 
great  day,  and  we  looked  forward  to  more  fun 
on  the  morrow. 

But  how  vain  our  hopes!  As  usual,  the 
weather  was  unparalleled.  Once  again  it 

24 


GEESE 

surprised  the  oldest  inhabitants.  That  night 
the  wind  whipped  into  the  south,  drove  all  the 
water  off  the  bars,  then  fell  away  to  a  calm, 
and  the  temperature  became  oppressive.  The 
wild  fowl  reassembled  in  great  rafts  where  we 
could  not  get  at  them;  we  lay  in  our  batteries, 
panting  like  lizards  and  moaning  for  iced  lem- 
onade, while  the  skin  on  our  noses  curled  up 
like  dried  paint.  The  only  birds  we  got  were 
poor  half-witted  things,  delirious  with  the  heat. 

Such  conditions  could  not  last — the  guides 
assured  us  of  that — and  they  didn't.  The 
next  day  it  rained,  and  a  battery  in  rainy 
weather  is  about  as  dry  as  a  goldfish  globe. 
Now,  a  strong  man  with  an  iron  will  may 
school  himself  to  lie  motionless  while  he  slowly 
perishes  from  cold,  for  after  the  first  few 
agonizing  hours  there  is  comparatively  little 
discomfort  to  death  by  freezing,  but  I  defy 
anybody  to  drown  without  a  struggle. 

But  why  drag  out  the  painful  details?  We 
had  not  interred  our  jinx.  One  day  a  hurri- 
cane blew  out  of  the  north  and  piled  the  angry 
waters  in  upon  us,  the  next  it  shifted,  ran  the 
tides  out,  and  left  us  as  dry  as  a  lime  burner's 
boot;  the  third  it  rained  or  fogged  or  turned 
glassy  calm.  Grizzled  old  veterans  from  the 

25 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Hatteras  Life-saving  Station  rowed  out  to 
tell  us  that  such  weather  was  impossible 
and  threatened  to  ruin  their  business,  but 
what  could  you  expect  under  a  Democratic 
administration? 

One  morning,  Ri  outlined  a  desperate  plan 
to  me,  and  I  leaped  at  it.  Away  inshore, 
across  miles  of  flats,  we  could  see  probably  a 
million  geese  and  twice  that  many  ducks 
enjoying  a  shallow  footbath  where  no  boat 
could  approach  them. 

"Let's  leave  the  launch  outside,  wade  our 
rig  up  to  their  feedin'  ground,  and  dig  it  in. 
It  '11  take  a  half  day  of  hard  work,  but  there's 
goin'  to  be  a  loose  goose  flyin'  about  three 
o'clock,  and  you  can  shoot  till  plumb  dark. 
We'll  leave  the  box  down  and  wade  back." 

It  sounded  difficult,  so  we  tried  it,  towing 
the  empty  battery  behind  us.  The  big  decoy 
skiff  dragged  like  an  alligator,  but  we  poled, 
waded,  shoved,  and  tugged  until  we  came  to 
where  the  bottom  was  pitted  and  white  with 
uptorn  grass  roots.  Here  we  dug  a  hole  deep 
enough  to  sink  the  box — no  easy  job  with  a 
broken-handled  shovel — put  out  our  stools, 
and  then  the  men  shoved  the  empty  boat  away. 

Tons  of  wild  fowl  had  gone  out  as  we  came 
26 


GEESE 

in,  but  soon  after  I  lay  down  they  began 
returning.  First  there  came  a  pair  of  sprigs, 
then  a  pair  of  black  ducks.  The  black  mal- 
lard is  my  favorite — he  is  so  wary,  so  wise,  and 
so  game.  He  can  look  into  the  neck  of  a  jug, 
and  he  fights  to  the  last.  When  the  hen 
dropped,  the  drake,  as  usual,  flared  vertically. 
Upward  he  leaped  in  that  exhibition  of  furious 
aerial  gymnastics  peculiar  to  his  breed;  then, 
at  the  top  of  his  climb,  he  seemed  to  hang 
motionless  for  the  briefest  interval.  That  is 
the  psychological  instant  at  which  to  nail  a 
black  duck.  As  he  came  down,  fighting,  I 
was  up  and  overboard  after  him.  The  water 
was  shallow,  but  I  splashed  like  a  stern- 
wheeler,  and  I  was  wet  to  the  waist  before  I 
had  retrieved  that  cripple. 

Next  I  glimpsed  a  long,  low  line  of  waving 
wings  approaching,  and  flattened  myself  to  the 
thickness  of  a  flannel  cake,  thrilling  in  every 
nerve.  Never  did  twenty  geese  head  in  more 
prettily.  They  had  started  to  set  their  pin- 
ions, and  I  was  picking  my  shots,  when  one  of 
the  decoys,  a  young  gander  in  the  Boy  Scout 
class,  cracked  under  the  nervous  strain  and 
began  to  flap  madly.  He  flared  the  incomers, 
and  I  failed  to  get  more  than  two. 
3  27 


OH,  SHOOT! 

I  made  haste  to  gather  up  the  dead  birds 
and  lay  them  on  the  battery  wings;  then  I 
moved  the  shell-shocked  gander  to  the  head 
of  the  rig.  But  before  I  could  get  him 
anchored,  distant  honks  warned  me,  and  I 
ran  for  cover.  Of  course,  I  tripped  over 
decoy  lines — everybody  does.  I  did  Miss 
Kellerman's  famous  standing,  sitting,  stand- 
ing dive,  but  there  was  still  a  dry  spot  between 
my  shoulder  blades  when  I  plunged  kicking 
into  the  battery.  I  was  too  late,  however,  and 
the  flock  went  by,  out  of  range,  laughing  up- 
roariously at  me. 

Then  up  from  the  south  came  a  rain  squall, 
and  I  stood  with  my  back  to  it,  shivering  and 
talking  loudly  as  tiny  glacial  streams  explored 
parts  of  my  body  that  are  not  accustomed  to 
water.  During  the  rest  of  the  afternoon, 
cloudbursts  followed  one  another  with  such 
regularity  that  my  battery  resembled  a  horse 
trough,  and  when  I  immersed  myself  in  it  it 
overflowed.  But  between  squalls  the  birds 
flew.  When  a  bunch  of  geese  pitched  in  at 
my  head  and  I  downed  five,  I  fell  in  love  with 
the  spot  and  would  have  resisted  a  writ  of 
eviction. 

When  the  guides  appeared  at  dark  I  had  a 
28 


GEESE 

pile  of  game  that  all  but  filled  the  tiny  skiff 
which  they  had  thoughtfully  brought  along. 
By  the  time  we  had  loaded  it  with  the  dead 
birds  and  the  crate  of  live  decoys  it  was  gun- 
wale deep,  so  we  set  out  to  wade  back  to  the 
launch,  towing  it  behind  us. 

Night  had  fallen;  fog  and  rain  occasionally 
obscured  the  gleam  of  our  distant  ship's  lan- 
tern. Other  lights  winked  at  us  out  of  the 
gloom,  and  although  they  were  miles  away, 
nevertheless  they  all  looked  alike;  so,  natu- 
rally, we  got  lost.  We  headed  for  first  one 
then  another  twinkling  beacon,  and  altered 
our  course  only  when  the  water  deepened  so 
that  we  could  proceed  no  farther  without 
swimming. 

I  have  been  successfully  lost  where  you 
would  least  expect  it,  but  never  before  had  I 
been  lost  at  sea  with  nothing  whatever  to  sit 
down  upon  except  the  ocean,  and  after  an 
hour  or  two  I  voted  it  the  last  word  in  nothing 
to  do.  I  can  think  of  no  poorer  way  of  spend- 
ing a  rainy  December  night  than  chasing  will- 
o'-the-wisps  round  a  knee-deep  mud  flat  the 
size  of  Texas,  with  an  open  channel  between 
you  and  the  shore. 

I  presume  we  waded  no  more  than  twenty - 
29 


OH,  SHOOT! 

five  miles — although  it  seemed  much  farther 
— before  we  found  the  launch  and  collapsed 
over  her  gunwale  like  three  wet  shirts.  Then, 
just  to  show  that  things  are  never  as  bad  as 
possible,  the  engine  balked. 

I  asked  if  there  was  plenty  of  gas  and  if  the 
spark  was  working,  and,  receiving  the  usual 
affirmative  answer,  I  dissolved  completely 
into  my  rubber  boots.  Ri  was  probably  quite 
as  miserable  as  I,  but  he  began  to  scrub  up  for 
the  customary  operation.  He  removed  the 
motor's  appendix,  or  its  Fay  and  Bowen, 
and  ran  a  straw  through  it,  the  while  we 
could  see  frantic  flashes  of  the  houseboat's 
headlight. 

I  felt  an  aching  pity  for  Max  and  Grant. 
What  a  shock  to  them  it  would  be  to  find  us 
in  the  morning,  frozen  over  the  disemboweled 
remains  of  our  engine,  like  merrymakers 
stricken  at  a  feast  of  toadstools.  They  were 
men  of  fine  feelings;  it  would  nearly,  if  not 
quite,  spoil  their  whole  trip,  even  though  they 
divided  my  dead  birds  between  them. 

But  the  machine  made  a  miraculous  re- 
covery, and  at  its  first  encouraging  "put"  a 
great  warmth  of  satisfaction  stole  through  me. 
After  all,  it  had  been  a  wonderful  day. 

30 


GEESE 

Human  endurance,  however,  could  not  out- 
game  that  weather.  The  evening  finally 
came  when  the  boys  announced  that  their 
time  was  up,  so,  after  supper,  we  sent  the 
small  boats  up  to  Ocracoke  on  the  inside  and 
fared  forth  into  the  dark  sound. 

As  we  blindly  felt  our  way  out  from  our 
anchorage,  we  ran  over  a  stake  net,  picked  it 
up  and  wrapped  it  around  our  propeller,  and 
grounded  helplessly  on  the  edge  of  the  outer 
bar.  There  we  stuck.  Examination  showed 
a  very  pretty  state  of  affairs.  The  net  with 
its  hard  cotton  lead  line  had  wedged  in  be- 
tween the  propeller  and  the  hull,  and  discon- 
nected the  shaft — a  trifling  damage  and  one 
that  could  have  been  repaired  easily  enough 
had  we  possessed  a  deep-sea  diving  outfit  or 
a  floating  dry  dock.  But,  search  our  baggage 
as  we  might,  we  could  find  neither.  That's 
the  trouble  about  leaving  home  in  a  hurry, 
one  is  apt  to  forget  his  dry  dock. 

Just  to  show  us  that  he  was  still  on  the  job, 
old  J.  W.  Jinx  arranged  a  shift  in  the  wind. 
It  had  been  calm  all  day;  now  a  gale  came  off 
the  sound  and  held  us  firmly  on  the  reef. 
Pamlico  began  to  show  her  teeth  in  the 
gloom,  and  with  every  swell  we  worked  higher 

31 


OH,  SHOOT! 

up  on  the  bar  and  the  boat  bumped  until  our 
teeth  rattled.  We  were  several  miles  offshore, 
without  any  sort  of  skiff;  it  began  to  look  as 
if  we  had  about  run  out  of  luck  and  might 
have  to  hunt  standing  room  somewhere  in  the 
surf.  However,  a  yacht  had  made  in  near  by 
on  the  day  before,  and,  thanks  to  our  search- 
light, we  managed  to  get  a  rise  out  of  her. 
She  sent  a  launch  off,  and  it  finally  towed  us 
back  to  shelter. 

By  this  time  it  was  midnight  and  the  duties 
of  host  rested  heavily  upon  me.  I  could  with 
difficulty  meet  the  accusing  eyes  of  my  guests, 
and,  although  I  had  exhausted  my  conversa- 
tional powers,  I  hung  close  to  them  for  fear  of 
the  cutting,  unkind  things  they  would  say  if 
I  left  them  alone. 

The  next  morning,  Mr.  Scott,  owner  of  the 
neighboring  yacht,  prompted  by  true  sports- 
man's courtesy,  towed  us  back  to  Ocracoke, 
and  as  we  went  plunging  down  the  sound  in  a 
cloud  of  spray  we  realized  that  the  weather 
had  hardened  up  and  the  birds  were  beginning 
to  fly.  The  sky  was  full  of  them;  we  could 
hear  the  noise  of  many  guns — a  sound  that 
brought  scalding  tears  to  our  eyes. 

I  simply  could  not  bear  to  leave  just  as  the 
32 


GEESE 

show  had  begun;  so  I  reread  my  wife's  last 
letter,  and,  finding  it  only  moderately  cool,  I 
took  the  bit  in  my  teeth  and  declared  it  my 
intention  to  stick  long  enough  to  change  de- 
feat into  victory,  even  if  I  had  to  sleep  in  the 
woodshed  when  I  got  home. 

"  Better  stay  on  for  a  few  days,"  I  urged  the 
boys.  "It  will  be  dangerous  to  sit  up  in  a 
battery  to-morrow;  the  birds  will  knock  your 
hats  off.  A  blind  man  could  kill  his  limit  in 
this  weather." 

I  had  not  read  their  mail,  but  I  understood 
when  they  choked  up  and  spoke  tearfully 
about  "business."  While  I  pitied  them  sin- 
cerely, a  fierce  joy  surged  through  my  own 
veins;  nothing  now  could  hinder  me  from 
enjoying  a  few  days  of  fast,  furious  shooting. 
The  birds  were  pouring  out  of  Currituck; 
there  would  be  redheads,  canvasbacks,  teal — 
every  kind  of  duck. 

As  we  tried  to  work  the  house  boat  into  the 
lagoon  at  Ocracoke,  where  we  could  get  her 
out  on  the  ways  and  count  the  fish  remaining 
in  that  fragment  of  net,  an  Arctic  tornado  hit 
us  and  blew  us  up  high  and  dry  on  a  rock  pile. 
It  was  a  frightful  position  we  now  found  our- 
selves in,  for  we  had  such  a  list  to  port  that  the 

33 


OH,  SHOOT! 

chips  rolled  off  the  table — and  we  all  felt 

lucky. 

But  the  storm  had  delayed  the  mail  boat 
and  my  companions  were  forced  to  remain 
over  another  day.  The  courage  with  which 
th^y  bore  this  bitter  disappointment  was  sub- 
lime; they  sang  like  a  pair  of  thrushes  as  they 
feverishly  unpacked. 

Conditions  were  ideal  the  next  morning 
and  we  were  away  early.  Having  put  down 
my  rig  in  shallow  water,  where  I  could  wade 
up  my  own  birds,  I  sent  the  launch  back  to 
the  village.  This  promised  to  be  a  day  of 
days,  and  I  wanted  to  get  the  most  out  of  it. 

Almost  immediately  the  ducks  began  flying, 
and  several  bunches  headed  in  towards  me. 
I  was  puzzled  as  to  why  they  changed  their 
minds  and  flared,  until  a  cautious  peep  over 
the  side  showed  a  small  power-boat  threshing 
up  against  the  wind.  It  had  already  cost  me 
several  good  shots,  but  there  was  nothing  to  do 
except  wait  patiently  for  it  to  pass.  How- 
ever, it  did  not  pass;  in  spite  of  my  angry 
shouts  and  gesticulations  it  held  its  course 
until  within  hailing  distance.  Then  the  man 
in  the  stern  bellowed: 

"Telegram!" 

34 


GEESE 

Now,  mail  is  bad  enough  on  a  hunting 
trip,  but  telegrams  are  unbearable,  and  I 
distrust  them.  Nobody  ever  wanted  me  to 
stay  away  and  enjoy  myself  so  urgently  as  to 
wire  me;  therefore  I  openly  resented  this 
man  and  his  mission.  By  the  time  he  had 
handed  me  the  message  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  ignore  it,  reasoning  rapidly  that  it 
could  by  no  possibility  be  of  importance,  and 
if  it  were — as  it  probably  was — I  could  do 
nothing  about  it  before  the  mail  boat  came 
that  night.  Hence  it  was  futile  to  permit 
my  attention  to  be  distracted  from  the  im- 
portant business  of  the  moment. 

I  thanked  the  man,  then  urged  him,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  to  beat  it  quickly,  for,  in  the 
offing,  flocks  of  geese  were  noisily  demanding 
a  chance  to  sit  down  with  my  decoys,  and  just 
out  of  range  ducks  were  flying  about,  first  on 
one  wing  then  on  the  other,  waiting  for  him 
to  be  gone. 

But  that  telegram  exercised  an  uncanny 
fascination  for  me.  I  lacked  the  moral  cour- 
age to  destroy  it,  although  I  knew  full  well  if 
I  kept  it  on  my  person  I  would  read  it — and 
regret  so  doing.  Things  worked  out  just  as  I 
had  expected.  I  yielded  and — my  worst  ap- 

35 


OH,   SHOOT! 

prehensions  were  realized.  The  message  was 
from  my  wife,  but  beyond  that  fact  there  was 
nothing  in  its  favor,  for  it  read: 

Your  secretary  has  forged  a  number  of  your  checks  and 
disappeared.  Total  amount  unknown,  as  checks  are  still 
coming  in.  Presume  you  gave  him  keys  to  wine  cellar,  for 
they,  too,  are  missing.  Wire  instructions  quick.  Am  ill, 
but  stay,  have  a  good  time,  and  don't  worry. 

I  stared,  numb  and  horror-stricken,  at  the 
sheet  until  I  was  roused  by  a  mighty  whir  of 
rushing  pinions.  Those  ducks  had  stood  it  as 
long  as  possible  and  were  decoying  to  me, 
sitting  up.  Through  force  of  habit  my  pal- 
sied fingers  clutched  at  my  gun,  but,  although 
the  birds  were  back-pedaling  almost  within 
reach,  I  scored  five  misses.  Who  can  shoot 
straight  with  amount  of  loss  unknown  and 
certain  precincts  unheard  from?  Not  I. 
Those  broadbills  looked  like  fluttering  bank 
books. 

And  the  keys  to  the  wine  cellar  missing! 
That  precious  private  stock,  laid  in  for  purely 
medicinal  purposes,  ravaged,  kidnaped!  A 
hoarse  shout  burst  from  my  throat;  I  leaped 
to  my  feet  and  waved  frantically  at  the  de- 
parting boatsman,  but  he  mistook  my  cries 
of  anguish  for  jubilation  at  the  results  of  my 

36 


GEESE 

broadside,  waved  me  good  luck,  and  continued 
on  his  way. 

As  I  stood  there  striving  to  make  my  distress 
heard  by  that  vanishing  messenger,  geese, 
brant,  ducks,  and  other  shy  feathered  crea- 
tures of  the  wild  poured  out  of  the  sky  and 
tried  to  alight  upon  me,  or  so  it  seemed. 
They  came  in  clouds  and  I  shooed  them  off 
like  mosquitoes.  One  would  have  thought  it 
was  the  nesting  season,  and  I  was  an  egg. 

I  read  again  that  hideous  message  as  I 
undertook  to  reload,  but  I  trembled  the 
trigger  off  and  barely  missed  destroying  my 
left  foot — my  favorite.  Never  in  the  annals 
of  battery  shooting  has  there  been  another 
day  like  that.  Those  ducks  reorganized  and 
launched  attack  after  attack  upon  me,  but 
my  nerve  was  gone,  and  the  most  I  could  do 
was  defend  myself  blindly. 

I  did  spill  blood  during  one  assault,  and  I 
was  encouraged  until  I  found  that  I  had  shot 
one  of  Ri's  live  decoys.  Beyond  that,  the 
casualties  were  negligible,  and  when  the  guides 
came  to  pick  me  up  they  had  to  beat  the 
blackheads  out  of  the  decoys  with  an  oar. 

As  we  pulled  out  of  Ocracoke  at  dawn  the 
next  morning,  the  town  was  full  of  dead  birds, 

37 


OH,  SHOOT! 

and  visiting  sportsmen  with  eager,  feverish 
eyes  were  setting  forth  once  more  for  the  gun- 
ning grounds.  But  we  hated  them.  Flocks 
of  geese  decoyed  to  the  mail  boat  whenever  it 
hove  to  or  broke  down,  and  we  hated  them 
also. 

Upon  my  arrival  home  I  found  a  wire  from 
Ri  reading: 

Too  bad  you  left.  Nathan  killed  fifty  birds  the  next  day 
and  he  can't  hit  a  bull  with  a  spade. 

However,  take  it  by  and  large,  it  was  a 
fine  trip  and  a  good  time  was  had  by  all,  which 
proves  what  I  set  out  to  demonstrate  in  the 
beginning — viz.,  you  can't  explain  a  hunter; 
you  can  only  bear  with  him  and  allow  nature 
to  take  its  course. 


II 

THE   CHRONICLE    OF   A    CHROMATIC 
BEAR   HUNT 

THE  biography  of  the  average  big-game 
hunter  is  a  bitter  hard-luck  story.  As 
compared  with  his  work,  the  twelve  labors 
of  Hercules  were  the  initiatory  stunts  of  a 
high-school  sorority.  If  this  were  not  so,  we 
would  have  no  game  left.  The  "big-horn" 
and  the  Alaskan  grizzly  would  soon  be  quite 
as  extinct  as  the  dodo. 

When  Fred  Stone  and  I  determined  to  go 
bear  hunting  we  chose  Alaska,  for  several 
reasons.  First,  it  was  farther  away  than 
any  other  place  we  knew  of,  and  harder  to 
get  to  than  certain  suburbs  of  Brooklyn. 
Secondly,  there  are  lots  of  bears  in  Alaska — 
black,  white,  gray,  blue,  brown,  and  the 
combinations  thereof;  enough  to  match  any 
kind  of  furniture  or  shade  of  carpet.  And 
I  had  been  kindly  but  firmly  informed  that 
my  trip  would  not  be  considered  a  success  at 

39 


OH,   SHOOT! 

our  house  unless  I  brought  back  a  mahogany- 
brown  skin,  shading  to  orange,  for  the  living 
room,  and  a  large  pelt  not  too  deeply  tinged 
with  ox-heart  red,  to  match  the  dining  room 
rug.  Fred  was  told  likewise  that  the  boss  of 
his  bungalow  would  welcome  bear  rugs  of  a 
French-gray  or  moss-green  tint  only. 

We  began  to  hunt  immediately  upon  leav- 
ing New  York,  and  had  secured  some  fine 
specimens  before  reaching  Chicago,  but  we 
killed  most  of  our  bears  between  St.  Paul  and 
Billings,  Montana. 

It  was  while  dashing  through  the  Bad  Lands 
that  Fred  suggested  bear  dogs.  "Great!" 
said  I.  "They'll  save  us  a  lot  of  work  and 
be  fine  company  in  camp."  Accordingly,  we 
wired  ahead  for  "Best  pair  bear  dogs  state  of 
Washington,"  and  a  few  hours  after  our 
arrival  at  Seattle  they  came  by  express. 
They  were  a  well-matched  pair,  yclept  Jack 
and  Jill,  so  the  letter  stated;  both  were  wise 
in  their  generation  and  schooled  in  the  ways 
of  bear. 

"They  are  a  trifle  fat,"  we  read,  "but  they 
will  be  O.  K.  if  you  cut  dpwn  their  rations. 
Both  are  fine  cold  trailers.  Kindly  remit  hun- 
dred dollars  and  feed  only  at  night."  We 

40 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

were  informed  that  in  Jill's  veins  coursed  the 
best  blue  blood  of  Virginia,  and  that,  although 
she  was  no  puppy  in  point  of  years,  her  age 
and  experience  were  assets  impossible  to  esti- 
mate. This  rendered  me  a  bit  doubtful,  for 
Alaska  is  not  a  land  for  fat  old  ladies,  but 
Fred  destroyed  my  misgivings  by  saying: 

"Take  it  from  me,  she's  all  right.  We 
don't  want  any  debutante  dogs  on  this  trip." 

Jack  was  more  my  ideal.  He  had  the  ears 
of  a  bloodhound,  the  face  of  a  mastiff,  and 
the  tail  of  a  kangaroo,  while  his  eyes  were 
those  of  a  tragedian,  deep,  soulful,  and  dark 
with  romance.  When  he  gave  tongue,  we  de- 
cided he  must  have  studied  under  Edouard 
de  Reszke. 

One  day  in  Seattle  sufficed  to  augment  our 
outfit  with  ammunition,  fishing  tackle,  and  a 
mosquito  tent.  I  have  long  since  learned 
not  to  carry  grub  into  the  north. 

Two  years  before,  at  the  height  of  the 
salmon  season,  I  had  made  a  trip  through 
the  Copper  River  delta  in  a  wheezy,  smelly 
fish  boat,  and  while  tidebound,  with  the  north 
Pacific  pounding  on  the  sand  dunes  to  sea- 
ward, I  had  gazed  across  thirty  miles  of  flats 
up  into  a  gap  of  the  great  Alaskan  range 

41 


OH,  SHOOT! 

towards  long,  low-lying  streaks  of  white  which 
slanted  down  out  of  hidden  gulches  on  op- 
posite sides  of  the  valley,  appearing  to  close 
the  course  of  the  river. 

"Glaciers!"  announced  the  smelly  captain 
of  the  smelly  fish  boat. 

"Live  glaciers?"  I  queried. 

"Sure!  On  still  days  you  can  hear  them 
'working'  clear  out  here.  Chunks  drop  off 
the  size  of  a  mountain,  and  splash  out  all 
the  water  in  the  river.  There  'ain't  any  white 
men  ever  been  up  there." 

I  spoke  later  with  the  smelly  engineer, 
who  was  an  old-timer  in  the  country. 

"They  come  together,  they  do,  buttin'  one 
another  like  a  pair  of  rams,  grindin'  and 
squeezin'  to  beat  the  band." 

"But  how  does  the  river  get  through?"  I 
demanded,  skeptically. 

"I  don't  know.    Maybe  it  jumps  over." 

The  smelly  deck  hand  shed  even  a  dimmer 
light  on  that  mysterious  valley  by  informing 
me  that,  in  order  to  pass  those  glaciers,  one 
had  to  work  along  a  perpendicular  face  of 
ice,  chipping  footholds  and  clinging  with  fin- 
gers and  toes  to  dizzy  heights  above  the  river. 

My  informants  united  on  but  one  state- 
42 


RAILROAD   CONSTRUCTION,    COPPER   RIVER    RAILROAD 


FREIGHTING   CONSTRUCTION   SUPPLIES   UP  THE  COPPER   RIVER 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

ment:  there  were  a  great  many  bears  up 
near  those  glaciers,  for  it  seemed  there  were 
rapids  of  some  sort  where  the  animals  came 
to  fish  during  the  salmon  time;  so  many  of 
them,  in  fact,  that  the  banks  were  seamed 
with  trails  and  the  rocks  worn  smooth  by  their 
feet. 

I  still  had  some  eight  thousand  Alaskan 
miles  to  do  that  summer,  so  I  could  stay  there 
no  longer,  but  the  determination  to  see  those 
glaciers  at  close  range  and  to  examine  those 
bear  tracks  had  grown  upon  me  steadily.  I 
had  told  Fred  of  them,  and  it  was  thither  we 
were  heading  now.  Hence  the  mosquito 
tents,  the  ammunition,  and  the  soulful  bear 
dogs. 

For  five  days  we  plowed  northward  on  a 
typical  ratty  Alaskan  steamer,  a  thing  of 
creaks  and  odors  and  vermin.  On  a  drizzly 
May  morning  we  docked  at  Cordova,  the  town 
which  had  sprung  up  at  the  terminus  of  Mr. 
Heney's  railroad.  The  road  was  not  really  Mr. 
Heney's,  but  belonged  to  the  Morgan-Guggen- 
heim interests,  being  destined  to  haul  copper 
from  their  mines  two  hundred  miles  inland. 
Mr.  Heney  was  building  it  for  them,  however, 
and  everybody  looked  upon  it  as  his  personal 
4  43 


OH,  SHOOT! 

property.  It  was  hours  before  breakfast  time 
when  we  arrived,  but  "M.  J."  himself  was  at 
the  dock,  for  a  purser  on  one  of  his  freight 
steamers  had  apparently  mislaid  a  locomotive 
or  a  steam  shovel  or  some  such  article  which 
Mr.  Heney  wished  to  use  that  morning,  and 
he  had  come  down  to  find  it.  He  was  not 
annoyed — it  takes  something  more  than  a  lost, 
strayed,  or  stolen  locomotive  to  annoy  a  man 
who  builds  railroads  for  fun  rather  than  for 
money  and  chooses  a  new  country  in  which  to 
do  it  because  it  offers  unusual  obstacles. 

He  welcomed  us,  drippingly,  with  a  smile  of 
Irish  descent  which  no  humidity  nor  stress  of 
fortune  could  affect. 

"I'm  sorry  you  didn't  arrive  yesterday,"  he 
said,  "for  it  looks  as  if  the  fall  rains  had  set 
in."  It  was  the  2ist  of  May  and  this  was  no 
joke,  for  Cordova  is  known  as  the  wettest 
place  in  the  world. 

"Bear?"  said  Mr.  Heney.  "Yes,  indeed. 
We'll  see  that  you  get  all  you  want."  And 
from  that  moment  until  we  left  Alaska  with 
our  legal  limit  of  pelts  he  made  us  feel  that 
the  labors  of  his  fifteen  hundred  men,  the 
building  of  his  railroad,  and  the  disbursement 
of  millions  of  dollars  were,  as  compared  with 

44 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

our  comfort  and  our  enjoyment,  affairs  of 
secondary  importance.  And  when  we  de- 
scribed to  him  the  tints  of  our  wall  paper  and 
rugs  we  got  the  impression  that,  whether  we 
needed  bears  lavender,  bears  mauve,  or  bears 
cerise,  it  was  thenceforth  a  religion  with  him 
to  see  that  we  found  them. 

As  to  guides,  there  were  no  regular  guides 
in  this  neighborhood,  since  there  were  no 
tourists — every  resident  had  to  earn  his  money 
honestly.  But  there  were  fellows  about  who 
knew  the  woods — Joe  Ibach,  for  instance.  He 
had  just  come  in  from  a  prospecting  trip  and 
might  care  to  go  a-bear  hunting.  So  we  de- 
scended upon  Joe.  Certainly  he'd  go.  He 
didn't  care  to  guide,  however,  as  he  had  never 
"gid"  any,  but  he'd  show  us  a  lot  of  bears, 
and  carry  the  outfit,  and  row  the  boat,  and 
do  the  cooking,  and  chop  the  wood,  and  build 
the  fires,  and  perform  the  other  labors  of  the 
camp.  As  for  regular  guiding,  though,  he 
guessed  we'd  have  to  see  to  that  ourselves 
until  he  learned  how.  When  we  spoke  about 
wages,  he  said  he  didn't  think  that  sort  of 
thing  was  worth  money,  showing  conclusively 
that  he  was  not  a  real  guide.  He  had  a  long, 
square  jaw  and  a  steady  eye,  which  looked 

45 


OH,  SHOOT! 

good  to  us,  so  we  agreed  to  do  the  guiding  if 
he  would  do  the  rest  of  the  things  he  had  men- 
tioned— and  see  that  we  did  not  get  lost.  As 
to  those  mysterious  glaciers  towards  which  I 
had  been  working  these  two  years,  Mr.  Heney 
said  we  could  not  reach  them  yet.  The  Copper 
River  delta  was  full  of  rotten  ice,  and  the 
banks  were  so  choked  with  snow  that  it  was 
impossible  to  take  an  outfit  up  before  the 
slews  cleared.  Out  at  Camp  Six,  however,  a 
number  of  bears  had  been  seen,  one  in  particu- 
lar so  large  that  no  day  laborer  could  look 
upon  his  tracks  and  retain  a  sense  of  direction. 
Only  the  section  bosses  could  stand  their 
ground  after  one  glance  at  his  spoor. 

We  were  installed  at  Camp  Six  by  5.30  on 
the  following  afternoon  and  had  unchained 
our  dogs.  At  5.49  Jack  had  found  a  porcu- 
pine. A  man  came  running  to  inform  us 
that  he  was  "all  quilled  up,"  and  so  he  was; 
his  nose,  lips,  tongue,  and  throat  were  white 
with  the  cruel  spines. 

"Get  them  out  quick,  or  they'll  work  in," 
we  were  advised,  and  somebody  produced  a 
pair  of  tweezers,  with  which  we  fell  to.  But 
Jack  suddenly  developed  the  disposition  of  a 
wolf  and  the  strength  of  a  hippopotamus. 

46 


CAPTURE   OF   TWO    BEAR   CUBS 

John  Bloomquest  (left)  and  Jack  Barrett  (right) ;   the  cubs  which  they  captured 

in  the  tree,  while  "  Mr;.  Bear"  is  lying  dead  on  her  back  under  the  tree,  where 

Barrett  shot  it  when  it  attacked  his  companion 


TWO    BLACK    BEAR    CUBS 


WE  HAD  NO  MEANS  OF  MEASURING  OUR  PRIZE,   BUT  THE  CARCASS    WAS 
TREMENDOUS 

(Photograph  taken  at  midnight) 


THE  DISTANCE  FROM  FRED  STONE'S  BOOT  TRACKS  AND  HIS  SPENT  SHELLS 
TO   THE  CARCASS   WAS  A   SCANT   TWENTY   FEET 


A  CHROMATIC   BEAR  HUNT 

Followed  a  rough-and-tumble  which  ended  by 
our  getting  his  shoulders  to  the  mat  on  a 
"half  Nelson"  and  hammer-lock  hold.  Those 
quills  which  we  did  not  remove  from  the  dog 
with  the  tweezers  we  pulled  out  of  each  other 
after  the  scrimmage. 

At  6.15  Jill  notified  us  plaintively  that  she 
had  discovered  a  brother  to  Jack's  porcupine 
and  had  taken  a  bite  at  him.  By  the  time  we 
had  pulled  the  barbs  from  her  nose  our  supper 
was  cold. 

"Well,  it's  a  good  thing  for  them  to  get 
wised  up  early,"  Fred  remarked,  wiping  the 
blood  and  sweat  from  his  person.  "They'll 
know  enough  not  to  tackle  another  porcupine. 
They're  mighty  intelligent  dogs." 

We  were  still  eating — time,  6.44 — when  a 
voice  outside  the  mess  tent  inquired,  "Whose 
dog  is  that  with  his  nose  full  of  quills?" 

We  looked  at  each  other  and  Joe  com- 
menced  to  laugh. 

"Are  there  any  dogs  besides  ours  around 
this  camp?"  I  inquired  of  the  waiter. 

"No,  sir." 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  Jill  ran  down 
her  second  victim  and  raised  us  from  our 
slumbers  by  her  yells,  but  by  that  time  we 

47 


OH,  SHOOT! 

had  become  so  dexterous  with  the  pincers 
that  we  could  feed  each  other  soup  with  them, 
so  we  were  not  long  in  getting  back  to  bed. 

The  next  day  it  rained.  It  rains  every  day 
in  this  country,  but  nobody  minds  it.  In 
fact,  the  residents  declare  they  don't  like  sun- 
shiny weather,  asserting  that  it  cracks  their 
feet.  One  Cordovan  had  undertaken  to  keep 
a  record  of  the  sunshine,  on  the  summer  pre- 
vious, but  had  failed  because  he  had  no  stop- 
watch. 

Before  setting  out  Fred  called  my  attention 
to  Joe's  rifle. 

"It  looks  like  an  air  gun,"  said  he.  "It 
wouldn't  kill  a  duck." 

Joe  yielded  the  weapon  up  cheerfully  for 
examination,  and  it  did  indeed  look  like  a  toy. 
Its  bore  was  the  size  of  a  lady's  lead  pencil,  it 
was  weather-beaten  and  rusty,  and  the  stock 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  used  to  split  kindling. 

"She's  kind  of  dirty  now,"  the  owner  apolo- 
gized, "but  I'll  set  her  out  in  the  rain  to-night, 
and  that  will  clean  her  up." 

My  experience  with  Alaskan  grizzlies  has 
shown  me  that  they  are  hard  to  kill  and  will 
carry  much  lead,  hence  in  close  quarters  a 
bullet  with  great  shocking  power  is  more 

48 


A   CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

effective  than  one  which  is  highly  penetrative; 
but  when  we  suggested  adroitly  to  Joe  that  he 
use  one  of  our  extra  guns  instead  of  this  relic, 
he  declined,  on  the  ground  that  his  old  gun 
was  easier  to  carry. 

We  splashed  through  miles  of  muskeg 
swamp  toward  the  forest  where  the  big  bear 
had  been  seen.  We  sank  to  our  knees  at 
every  step;  low  brush  hindered  us;  in  places 
the  surface  of  the  ground  quaked  like  jelly. 
We  were  well  into  the  thickets  before  the  dogs 
gave  tongue  and  were  off,  with  us  crashing 
after  them  through  the  brush,  lunging  through 
drifts,  tripping,  falling,  sweating.  For  ten 
minutes  we  followed,  until  a  violent  din  in 
the  jungle  ahead  advised  us  that  their  quarry 
was  at  bay. 

Joe  took  his  obstacles  in  the  manner  of  a 
stag,  finally  bursting  through  the  brush  ahead 
of  us  with  his  air  gun  in  his  hand,  only  to  stop 
and  begin  to  swear  eloquently. 

"What  is  it?"  I  yelled,  hip  deep  in  a 
snowdrift. 

"Have  you  got  them  pinchers  handy?" 
came  his  answer. 

For  five  days  we  combed  those  thickets  and 
scoured  the  mountain  sides  without  a  shot, 

49 


OH,  SHOOT! 

for  those  educated  bear  dogs  got  lost  the  mo- 
ment we  were  out  of  sight,  and  made  such  a 
racket  that  we  were  forced  to  take  turns  re- 
trieving them.  They  were  passionately  ad- 
dicted to  porcupines.  No  sooner  were  they 
through  with  one  than  they  tackled  another, 
and  when  not  wailing  to  be  "unquilled"  they 
"heeled"  us,  ready  to  climb  up  our  backs  at 
the  appearance  of  any  other  form  of  animal 
life. 

"If  we  saw  a  bear  they'd  run  between  our 
legs  and  trip  us  up,"  declared  Joe,  disgustedly. 

Deciding,  finally,  that  this  section  was  too 
heavily  timbered  to  hunt  in  without  canine 
assistance,  we  sought  more  open  country,  and 
the  next  high  tide  found  us  scudding  down 
the  sound  in  a  fast  launch  towards  an  island 
which  for  years  had  been  shunned  because  of 
its  ugly  bears.  Not  a  week  before  a  party  of 
native  hunters  had  been  chased  into  camp  by  a 
herd  of  grizzlies,  hence  we  were  in  a  hurry. 

We  skimmed  past  wooded  shores  which 
lifted  upward  to  bleak  snow  fields  veiled  by 
ragged  streamers  of  sea  mist.  Into  a  shallow, 
uncharted  bay  we  felt  our  course,  past  cliffs 
white  with  millions  of  gulls,  under  towering 
columns  of  rock  which  thrust  wicked  fangs  up 

so 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

through  a  swirling  ten-mile  tide  and  burst  into 
clouds  of  shrieking  birds  at  our  approach. 

We  anchored  abreast  of  two  tumble-down 
shacks,  and,  as  the  afternoon  was  young,  pre- 
pared for  exploration.  Ahead  of  us,  rolling 
hills  rose  to  a  bolder  range  which  formed  the 
backbone  of  the  island.  The  timbered  slopes 
were  broken  by  meadows  of  brilliant  green, 
floored,  not  with  grass,  but  with  oozy  moss. 

"We've  got  three  guns  in  the  party,"  said 
Joe,  noting  the  preparations  of  Little,  the 
owner  of  the  launch,  "so  I'll  take  the  camera 
instead  of  my  rifle.  If  we  see  a  bear,  them 
dogs  can't  trip  up  more  than  two  of  us,  which 
will  leave  one  man  to  shoot  and  one  man  to  use 
the  machine." 

For  hours  we  tramped  the  likeliest-looking 
country  we  had  seen,  but  the  wet  moss  showed 
no  scars,  the  soft  snow  gave  no  evidence  of 
having  been  trod,  so  I  suggested  that  we  di- 
vide, in  order  to  cover  more  territory.  Fred 
and  Little,  escorted  by  Jack  and  Jill,  headed 
towards  the  flats,  while  Joe  and  I  turned  up- 
ward towards  the  heights. 

Far  above  timber  line  we  found  our  first 
sign,  and  farther  on  more  tracks,  all  leading 
down  the  southern  slope  and  not  in  the  direc- 


OH,  SHOOT! 

tion  of  our  launch;  so  away  we  plodded,  over 
crater  lakes  half  hidden  and  choked  with 
fifty  feet  of  snow,  skidding  down  crusted 
slopes,  lowering  ourselves  hand  over  hand 
down  gutters  where  the  snow  water  drenched 
us  from  above.  In  time  we  left  the  deeper 
snows  for  thick  brush,  broken  by  open  patches, 
and  a  ten-o'clock  twilight  was  on  us  when  we 
spied  a  fresh  track.  The  moss  had  slipped 
and  torn  beneath  the  animal's  weight,  and  the 
sharp  slashes  of  the  claws  had  not  yet  filled 
with  seepage. 

"He's  close  by,"  said  Joe,  shifting  the 
camera.  "Gee!  I  wish  I'd  brought  my  gun 
instead  of  this  thrashing  machine,"  and  for 
the  first  time  I  realized  that  I  had  a  new, 
small-calibered  rifle  with  me,  and  had  selected 
this  day  to  try  it,  not  expecting  to  have  to 
rely  upon  it. 

At  a  half  run  we  followed  down  the  trail, 
for  there  was  no  difficulty  in  picking  it  up 
wherever  it  crossed  an  open  spot;  but,  without 
warning,  the  hillside  ahead  of  us  dropped  off 
abruptly  and  we  emerged  upon  the  crest  of  a 
three-hundred-foot  declivity  choked  with  devil 
clubs  and  underbrush,  the  tops  of  the  spruce 
showing  beneath  us.  Joe  altered  his  course 

52 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

towards  the  right  when  I  saw,  over  the  edge 
and  not  thirty  feet  away,  a  grizzled  scruff  of 
hair  looking  like  the  back  of  a  porcupine. 

"There  he  is!"  I  called,  sharply.  "Look 
out  for  yourself ! ' ' 

I  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  for  after 
my  first  glimpse  that  angry  fur  had  disap- 
peared— and  looked  down  directly  into  the 
countenance  of  the  largest  grizzly  in  the  world ! 
Halted  by  our  approach,  he  had  paused  just 
under  the  crest. 

I  have  seen  several  Alaskan  bears  at  close 
range,  but  I  never  saw  one  more  distinctly 
than  this,  and  I  never  saw  a  wickeder  face 
than  the  one  which  glared  up  at  me.  His 
muzzle  was  as  gray  as  a  "whistler's"  back,  the 
silver  hairs  of  his  shoulders  were  on  end  like 
quills,  while  his  little  pig  eyes  were  bloodshot 
and  blazing. 

"What  luck!"  I  thought,  wildly,  as  the  rifle 
sights  cuddled  together,  but  in  that  fraction 
of  a  second  before  the  finger  crooks,  out  from 
the  brush  behind  him  scrambled  another 
bear,  a  great,  lean,  high-quartered  brute  of 
cinnamon  shade,  appearing,  to  my  startled 
eyes,  to  stand  as  tall  as  a  heifer. 

Now,  I  never  happened  to  be  quite  so  inti- 
53 


OH,  SHOOT! 

mate  with  a  pair  of  grizzlies  before,  and  since 
that  moment  I  have  frequently  wondered 
how  they  happened  to  impress  me  so  strongly 
with  the  idea  of  a  crowd.  The  woods  seemed 
suddenly  filled  with  bears,  and  involuntarily  I 
swept  the  glades  below  to  see  if  this  were  a 
procession,  or  a  bear  carnival  of  some  sort. 
That  instant's  weakness  cost  me  the  finest 
pelt  I  ever  saw,  for  at  my  movement  bear 
number  one  leaped,  and  as  I  swung  back  to 
cover  him  I  saw  only  a  brown  flank  disap- 
pearing behind  a  barrier  of  projecting  logs. 
At  that  distance  I  dared  not  take  a  chance  on 
other  than  a  head  shot,  so  I  jumped  back, 
peering  through  the  brush  at  our  level,  hoping 
to  see  him  as  he  emerged. 

Joe  rushed  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  hill, 
as  if  about  to  assault  the  cinnamon  with  his 
camera,  and  stepped  directly  between  me  and 
where  I  expected  bear  number  one  to  show. 

"Shoot!  Shoot!  Give  it  to  him  before  he 
gets  up  here,"  he  yelled,  hoarsely. 

"Get  out  of  the  way!"  I  shouted,  with 
my  eyes  glued  upon  the  vegetation  at  his 
back. 

He  was  still  screaming:  "Shoot!  Shoot!" 
when  his  voice  rose  to  a  squeak,  for  up  through 

54 


K 

5!  50 


5°  Z 
w  M 

O  ^ 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

the  undergrowth  lunged  the  big  cinnamon, 
nearly  trampling  him.  The  bear  rose  to  its 
hind  legs  and  snorted,  while  Joe  did  a  brisk 
dance,  side-stepping  neatly  from  underneath 
his  photographic  harness  and  fairly  kicking 
himself  up  and  out  of  his  rubber  boots. 
Before  either  footgear  or  camera  had  ended 
its  flight  he  had  sized  up  the  dimensions  of 
every  spruce  tree  within  a  radius  of  forty  rods, 
and  was  headed  for  the  most  promising. 

I  dare  say  my  own  movements  were  purely 
muscular  at  the  time.  I  got  out  of  Joe's  way 
in  time  to  avoid  being  badly  trampled,  only 
to  glimpse  through  my  sights  a  brown  rump 
over  which  the  brush  was  closing,  and  remem- 
ber deciding  that  with  five  shots  in  an  untried 
weapon  I  didn't  care  to  chance  a  tail  shot, 
especially  with  that  other  big  gray  bear  con- 
cealed within  forty  feet — and  more  especially 
since  Joe  had  staked  the  only  available  tree. 

In  the  days  which  followed  I  cursed  myself 
bitterly  at  the  memory  of  those  white-hot 
seconds. 

"Gosh  'Imighty!  If  I'd  only  had  a  six- 
shooter!"  panted  Joe,  regarding  me  with  dis- 
gust. "Why  didn't  you  give  it  to  him?" 

"I  wanted  to  get  the  big  one  first,"  said  I. 
55 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"The  big  one!    You  never  saw  a  bear  any 
bigger  than  that  one,  did  you?" 

"Yes;  I  tried  to  get  a  shot  at  the  old  gray 


one." 


"  Do  you  mean  to  say  there  was  two  of  *em?" 

' '  I  do !  And  the  big  one  was  in  yonder  all  the 
time.  He  may  be  there  now,  for  all  I  know." 

As  Joe  picked  up  the  camera  he  said,  very 
quietly: 

"I  guess  your  eyesight  was  a  little  bit  scat- 
tered. You  'ain't  seen  any  bear  for  quite  a 
spell,  have  you?" 

I  resented  the  innuendo,  and  began  to 
declare  myself  vigorously,  when  he  inter- 
rupted: "Come  on!  Let's  get  after  them," 
and  away  we  went  up  the  mountain  side,  run- 
ning until  we  were  breathless,  guided  plainly  by 
great  patches  of  torn  moss  and  heavy  indenta- 
tions. We  ran  upgrade  until  I  stumbled  and 
staggered  from  exhaustion;  we  ran  until  my 
legs  gave  out  and  my  lungs  burst ;  we  ran  until 
I  feared  I  should  die  at  the  next  knoll ;  and  we 
kept  on  running  until  I  feared  I  might  not 
die  at  the  next  knoll.  Up,  up,  and  up  we 
went,  until,  two  hundred  yards  above,  a  mov- 
ing spot  amid  the  timber  halted  us. 

" G-g-give  it  to  him!"  gasped  Joe.  But  the 
56 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

sights  danced  so  drunkenly  before  my  eyes 
that  it  is  a  wonder  I  did  not  shoot  myself  in 
the  foot  or  fatally  wound  my  guide.  Then  we 
were  off  again  across  sink  holes  scummed 
over  with  rotten  ice  into  which  we  broke,  up 
heartbreaking  slopes,  and  through  drifts  where 
we  wallowed  halfway  to  our  waists.  In  time 
the  tracks  we  followed  were  joined  by  others, 
at  which  Joe  wheezed: 

1 '  By  g-gosh !  You — were — right ;  there  was 
— two!  Come  on!" 

But,  having  righted  myself  in  his  eyes,  I 
petered  out  completely.  My  legs  refused  to 
propel  me  faster  than  a  miserable  walk,  so  I 
turned  the  gun  over  to  him  and  he  floundered 
away,  while  I  flopped  to  my  back  in  the  center 
of  a  wet  moss  patch  and  hoped  a  bear  would 
come  and  get  me. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  heard  him  empty  the 
magazine,  but  as  he  reappeared  I  knew  the 
shots  had  been  long  ones. 

"Say!  That  old  gray  one  made  the  brown 
feller  look  like  a  cub,"  said  he,  and  we  were 
miles  away  from  the  scene  before  he  broke  our 
silence  to  remark: 

"You  were  wise  not  to  shoot.  If  I'd  'a* 
known  that  big  one  was  so  close  to  me  I'd  'a* 

57 


OH,  SHOOT! 

tore  my  suspenders  out  by  the  roots  and 
soared  up  over  the  treetops." 

Stone  and  Little,  having  covered  the  flats 
unsuccessfully,  were  rowing  into  the  mouth 
of  the  creek  when  we  slid  down  the  bluff 
above  the  launch,  but  at  my  recital  of  our 
adventure  Fred  went  violently  insane  and 
was  for  setting  out  for  the  scene  of  our  en- 
counter at  once.  Eventually  he  was  calmed 
and  we  rolled  up  for  a  few  hours'  rest  on  the 
floor  of  the  launch. 

I  was  half  roused  by  the  coffeepot  sliding  off 
the  stove  into  my  face.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  ashpan  emptied  its  contents  over  me,  and 
I  awoke  under  a  bombardment  of  dishes,  oil 
cans,  and  monkey  wrenches,  to  find  the  boat 
on  her  beam  ends  in  the  mud,  with  every 
movable  thing  inside  of  her  falling  upon  us. 
Little  was  swearing  softly  in  his  underclothes 
and  bare  feet. 

"The  tide  is  out  and  she's  standing  on  her 
hands,"  he  explained.  "Confound  a  round- 
bottomed  boat,  anyhow!" 

We  stood  on  the  starboard  wall  of  the  cabin 
to  dress,  then  walked  ashore  where  there  had 
been  eighteen  feet  of  water  on  the  night  pre- 
vious, to  cook  our  breakfast  in  the  rain. 

58 


A  CHROMATIC   BEAR  HUNT 

Up  the  hills  again  we  went,  determined  to 
see  at  last  what  was  in  those  bear  dogs  of  ours. 
For  five  miles  we  trailed  our  game,  across  snow 
fields  where  their  tracks  were  knee-deep,  over 
barren  reaches  where  it  took  all  our  skill  to 
pick  up  the  signs,  until,  without  warning,  the 
dogs  gave  tongue  and  went  abristle.  They 
were  off,  with  us  after  them,  the  woods  ringing 
to  their  music,  the  bears  just  out  of  sight 
through  the  timber. 

It  was  during  the  next  hour  that  I  proved 
to  my  own  satisfaction  that  a  two-hundred- 
pound  man,  considerably  out  of  condition, 
can't  outrun  a  bear.  Perhaps  it  is  because  the 
bear  knows  the  country  better. 

Half  a  mile  after  I  had  quit  running  I  found 
Fred  panting  and  dripping  on  the  other  side 
of  a  stream. 

"Where's  Joe?  "I  called. 

"At  the  rate  he  was  going  when  I  lost  sight 
of  him,  he'll  be  due  in  Nome  about  noon,  if 
his  boots  hold  out,"  Fred  answered,  sourly. 
"Where's  Little?" 

"Fallen  by  the  wayside.  How  did  you 
cross  the  creek?" 

"I  didn't!    I  ran  through  it.    I'm  wet  to  the 
ears." 
5  59 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"Those  are  nice  bear  dogs  of  ours,"  I  ven- 
tured, at  which  my  companion's  remarks  were 
of  a  character  not  to  be  chronicled. 

'"Kindly  remit  hundred  dollars  and  feed 
only  at  night,'"  he  quoted.  "Say,  if  those 
laphounds  ever  crab  another  shot  for  me  I'll — " 

"And  I'll  do  the  same,"  I  declared,  heartily; 
and  we  shook  hands  over  the  compact. 

We  found  Little  at  camp,  clad  in  a  pair  of 
bath  slippers,  drying  out  his  clothes,  but  Joe 
did  not  show  up  until  nearly  ten  that  night, 
and  then  he  came  alone. 

"Did  you  kill  those  college  bear  dogs?"  we 
inquired,  hopefully. 

"I  couldn't  get  close  enough,"  he  said. 

"  Did  you  get  a  shot  at  the  bears? " 

"No!  About  twelve  miles  back  yonder 
those  two  picked  up  five  more.  Your  eighty 
pounds  of  Mother  Goose  dog  had  four  tons 
of  bear  on  the  hike  when  I  quit.  It  looks  like 
they're  heading  toward  the  north  side  of  the 
island,  and  if  we  take  the  launch  around  to 
Big  Bay  to-night  we  may  be  able  to  pick  them 
up  to-morrow." 

It  was  high  tide  when  Jack  and  Jill  appeared 
on  the  bank,  and  as  Joe  boosted  them  over  the 
rail  they  beamed  upon  us  as  if  to  say: 

60 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

"This  has  indeed  been  a  glorious  day,  and 
we'll  make  this  bear  hunt  a  success  if  it  takes 
all  summer."  We  forbore  to  saddle  them 
with  what  lay  upon  our  souls. 

We  anchored  in  Big  Bay  as  a  three-o'clock 
dawn  crept  over  the  southern  range,  only  to 
be  awakened  a  few  hours  later  by  another 
avalanche  of  pots  and  pans.  The  launch  was 
doing  her  morning  hand  stand,  and  I  found  a 
streamlet  of  cylinder  oil  trickling  down  my 
neck.  Fred  had  been  assaulted  from  ambush 
by  a  sack  of  soft  coal,  while  the  cupboard  had 
hurtled  a  week's  grub  into  the  midst  of  Little's 
dreams.  Joe  alone  was  unconscious  of  his 
bedfellows,  which  comprised  the  rest  of  our 
cargo ;  he  was  slumbering  on  his  back,  snoring 
like  a  sea  lion  at  feeding  time. 

A  mile  of  tide  flats  glistened  between  us 
and  the  shore;  on  every  hand  the  hills  were 
white  with  desolate  snow.  Having  dressed 
stiffly,  propped  at  various  angles,  we  ate  a 
cold  breakfast,  for  the  stove  would  not  draw, 
and  had  it  drawn  we  could  not  have  held  the 
coffeepot  against  it;  then  Joe  and  I  lowered 
ourselves  into  the  slime  overside,  for  Little 
had  decided  to  stay  with  the  launch  until  high 
tide,  while  Fred's  heels  were  blistered  so  that 

61 


OH,  SHOOT! 

he  could  not  wear  his  boots.  We  went  with- 
out the  dogs. 

At  nine  that  night  I  staggered  wearily  out 
from  the  timber  on  to  the  beach.  A  mile  of 
mud  lay  between  the  bank  and  the  water, 
and  two  miles  beyond  that  I  sighted  the 
launch.  Fred  and  Little  heard  my  shots,  and 
by  the  time  I  had  reached  the  low-water  line 
they  were  under  way.  Out  another  half  mile 
into  the  creeping  tide  I  waded,  until  it  was  up 
to  the  tops  of  my  boots.  I  was  utterly  ex- 
hausted, my  feet  were  bruised  and  pounded  to 
a  jelly,  every  muscle  in  me  ached.  For  four- 
teen hours  Joe  and  I  had  shoved  ourselves 
through  the  snow,  in  places  waist-deep, 
crossing  canons,  creeping  up  endless  slopes 
until  we  had  traversed  the  island  and  the  open 
sea  lay  before  us.  Snow,  snow,  snow  every- 
where, until  our  eyes  had  ached  and  our  vision 
had  grown  distorted. 

We  had  found  the  tracks  of  those  seven 
bears,  but  they  were  miles  away  and  headed 
toward  the  west,  whither  we  could  not  follow. 
We  had  become  separated  later  and  I  had 
come  home  alone,  ten  miles  as  the  crow  flies, 
across  the  most  desolate  region  I  ever  saw. 

I  had  followed  a  herd  of  five  bears  for 
62 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

several  miles,  but  had  abandoned  the  chase 
when  it  grew  late.  One  track  I  measured 
repeatedly  from  heel  to  toe  of  the  hind  foot. 
It  took  my  Winchester  from  the  shoulder  plate 
clear  up  two  inches  past  the  hammer. 

Two  hours  after  I  was  aboard  we  heard 
Joe's  air  gun  popping  faintly.  He,  too,  had 
followed  those  five  bear  tracks,  holding  to 
them  an  hour  after  my  trail  had  sheered  off. 
We  had  covered  better  than  thirty  miles  of 
impossible  going  and  were  half  dead. 

The  next  day  found  us  back  at  the  cabins; 
for  the  north  side  of  the  island  was  too  killing, 
and  as  Little  had  business  to  attend  to,  he 
left  us,  promising  to  send  the  launch  back  in 
ten  days.  Then  followed  as  heartbreaking  a 
week  as  I  ever  endured.  Every  morning  we 
were  off  early,  to  drag  ourselves  in  ten,  twelve, 
perhaps  fourteen  hours  later,  utterly  ex- 
hausted. Every  noon  we  stopped  to  dry  out 
over  a  smoky  fire,  for  an  hour's  work  on  the 
slopes  threw  us  into  a  dripping  perspiration, 
which  the  chill  wind  discovered  at  the  first 
breathing  spell. 

Our  feet  were  constantly  wet  from  the 
melting  snow,  and  the  rain  did  what  remained 
to  be  done.  We  stood  barelegged  and  shiver- 

63 


OH,  SHOOT! 

ing  in  the  snow,  our  feet  on  strips  of  bark,  the 
while  we  scorched  our  underclothes  and  swore 
at  the  weather.  Finally,  on  one  particularly 
drenching  morning,  Fred  and  I  struck  and 
declared  for  rest.  Our  feet  and  ankles  were 
so  swollen  that  we  hobbled  painfully,  while  our 
systems  yelled  for  sleep. 

About  noon  Joe  said  this  idleness  palled  on 
him  and  he  guessed  he'd  take  a  little  trip.  If 
he  didn't  get  back  that  night  we  needn't 
worry,  as  he  intended  to  follow  any  trail  he 
struck  until  he  got  a  shot,  if  he  had  to  sleep 
out  in  the  rain  for  a  week.  He  took  no  grub, 
his  outfit  consisting,  as  usual,  of  the  hand  ax 
at  his  belt  and  the  popgun  between  his 
shoulder  blades 

"It  '11  be  just  our  luck  for  him  to  get  a  bear 
to-day,"  said  Stone.  "It's  the  first  time  in 
ten  days  we've  laid  off." 

"Maybe  so,"  said  I,  "but  if  he  shoots  a 
bear  with  that  child's  gun  and  the  animal 
happens  to  find  it  out,  it  may  go  hard  with 
him." 

Two  hours  after  dark  we  heard  a  voice  out- 
side the  cabin: 

"Hey!  What  do  you  think  of  this? " 

We  hobbled  out  in  our  sock  feet  as  Joe 
64 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

flung  from  his  shoulders  a  great  brown  skin 
the  ends  of  which  dragged  on  either  side. 
The  fur  was  deeper  than  a  man's  wrist,  the 
ears  were  a  foot  apart,  the  nose  was  curled  in 
a  ferocious  snarl  above  the  long  yellow  teeth. 

"See  here!"  He  held  up  a  cub  skin.  " There 
was  two  other  little  fellers,  but  they  got 
away." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?  "  Fred  groaned.  The 
fire  of  a  consuming  envy  burned  within  us  as 
we  bombarded  Joe  with  questions. 

It  seems  he  had  struck  a  trail  on  the  other 
side  of  the  range,  and  although  it  was  twenty- 
four  hours  old  he  had  followed  mile  after  mile, 
running  most  of  the  way  to  cover,  before  dark, 
the  distance  it  had  taken  the  mother  and  the 
cubs  two  days  to  go.  It  was  growing  dark 
when  he  overtook  them,  high  up  on  a  moun- 
tain side  covered  with  patches  of  gnarled 
spruce  and  wind-flattened  bushes. 

"When  I  see  I  was  close  to  'em  I  made  a 
circuit  up  the  hill  so's  to  head  'em  off,"  he 
explained;  "but  I  under  judged  her,  and  she 
must  have  snuffed  me."  He  had  told  the 
first  part  of  his  story  graphically,  but  at  this 
point  he  closed  his  narrative  in  a  sudden, 
matter-of-fact  way. 

65 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"Go  on,"  we  demanded,  beside  ourselves. 

"Well,  that's  all.  Just  as  I  scrambled  up 
where  I  could  get  a  peek  I  seen  her  right  on 
top  of  me,  coming  full  tilt,  r'aring  up  on  her 
hind  feet  every  few  jumps  for  a  look.  She 
must  have  snuffed  me." 

"Yes,  yes.     Hurry  up!"  we  chorused. 

"Her  nose  was  curled  up  just  the  way  it  is 
now  and  she  was  roaring  something  fierce. 
She  was  so  close  I  seen  her  eyes  blazing  and 
all  her  hair  on  end,  but  those  cubs — say,  you'd 
'a'  laughed  at  them  cubs.  They  was  snarling 
like  dogs  and  all  headed  for  my  legs." 

"Good  Lord!"  I  ejaculated,  sizing  up  the 
skin,  which  was  fully  ten  feet  long  as  it  lay, 
"she  must  have  looked  as  tall  as  a  house." 

"Yes,  she  looked  pretty  tall,"  Joe  agreed. 
"Have  you  got  anything  to  eat  handy?" 
But  we  forcibly  gouged  the  rest  of  the  story 
from  him. 

"Well,  she  was  so  close  on  to  me  that  I 
knew  I  had  to  get  her — so  I — did.  But  you'd 
'a'  laughed  at  them — " 

"Where  did  you  hit  her?"  we  demanded. 

" Oh,  in  the  eye.  See!"  He  laid  his  finger 
on  a  tiny  hole  half  an  inch  back  of  the  half- 
inch  eye,  which  was  still  fixed  in  an  ugly  stare. 

66 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

He  apologized  as  he  did  so.  "You  see,  my 
footing  wasn't  very  good  and  I  was  half  dead 
from  running,  or  I'd  have  shot  better  and  got 
her  the  first  time." 

"Then  you  had  to  shoot  again?" 
"Oh  yes;  twice  more.  She  fell  at  the  first 
crack,  and  that  give  me  time  to  reload.  When 
she  riz  up  again  I  tried  for  her  heart,  but  she 
throwed  up  her  forearm,  and  all  I  did  was  to 
break  her  leg.  Look!  That  give  me  a  chance, 
though,  for  when  she  jumped  at  me  the  next 
time  her  leg  give  out  and  throwed  her  off,  so  I 
sidestepped  her.  But  those  cubs!  Say,  they 
was  the  funniest  things ! "  He  began  to  laugh. 
"I  wanted  to  catch  'em,  but  they  was  too  big. 
They  was  snarling  around  my  feet  all  the  time 
and  I  was  kicking  at  'em  so's  to  get  a  shot  at 
the  old  one.  I  had  to  knock  this  one  down 
finally,  which  give  me  time  to  wallop  the  old 
lady  in  the  neck.  If  I  hadn't  been  so  tired  I'd 
have  run  down  them  other  two,  but  they  was 
too  fast  for  me.  I  chased  'em  half  a  mile,  but 
somehow  I  couldn't  get  up  to  'em.  It's  too 
bad  she  snuffed  me." 

Joe  had  returned,  skinned  the  two  carcasses, 
and  packed  the  hides  in  through  the  deep 
snow,  although  the  mother's  pelt  alone  was  a 

67 


OH,  SHOOT! 

heavy  burden  for  a  strong  man  on  good 
footing. 

The  cabin  walls  were  not  large  enough  to 
hold  the  skin,  so  our  guide  stayed  in  camp 
the  next  day  to  flesh  and  salt  it,  while  Fred  and 
I  made  another  unsuccessful  journey,  covering 
twenty-five  miles  of  the  territory  where  Joe 
had  been. 

Three  days  later,  when  Little  sent  back  the 
launch,  we  were  ready  to  quit  in  disgust  and 
head  towards  the  Copper  River  glaciers,  for 
the  bears  seemed  utterly  to  have  forsaken  this 
island.  We  could  find  no  fresh  signs,  we  could 
discover  no  indications  as  to  where  they  were 
feeding. 

A  mile  from  the  mouth  of  the  bay  we  ran 
hard  aground,  and  a  falling  tide  left  us  high 
and  dry,  but  held  upright  this  time  by  the 
cabin  doors,  which  we  had  removed  and  used 
as  props. 

"I'm  going  over  into  those  woods  where 
Little  and  I  went  the  first  day,"  Fred  an- 
nounced, and  Joe  went  with  him,  while  I,  dis- 
heartened, went  fishing  in  the  channel. 

Having  drifted  opposite  the  mouth  of  a  tiny 
creek  without  a  strike,  I  rowed  ashore  and 
wandered  aimlessly  back  into  the  open  flat 

68 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

through  which  the  stream  meandered.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  landing  in  Alaska  that  I 
had  been  without  my  gun,  and  within  three 
hundred  yards  from  the  shore  I  encountered 
fresh  bear  tracks.  As  I  regarded  them,  a 
movement  at  my  back  caused  me  to  whirl, 
and  there,  where  I  could  have  hit  him  with  a 
stone,  was  my  bear  observing  me  curiously. 

We  looked  each  other  over  for  several  mo- 
ments. We  were  both  blonds,  although  his  fur 
was  a  bit  lighter  than  mine.  When  I  moved, 
his  hair  rose ;  when  he  moved,  my  hair  did  the 
same.  He  was  much  the  larger  of  the  two. 
I  matched  him  up  with  my  dining-room  rug, 
and  he  went  all  right.  I  must  likewise  have 
harmonized  with  some  color  scheme  of  his,  for 
he  took  a  step  towards  me. 

Remembering  that  my  hunting  knife  was  in 
the  gunwale  of  the  skiff  and  my  rifle  halfway 
across  the  bay,  I  closed  the  interview  and 
went  after  them.  It  was  a  nice  cool  day  and 
I  hurried  a  bit.  I  felt  light  in  the  body  and 
strong  in  the  legs,  which  provoked  in  me  a 
sudden  disposition  to  disprove  my  previous 
theory  that  a  two-hundred-pound  man  out  of 
condition  cannot  outrun  a  bear.  You  see, 
this  was  the  first  bear  I  had  encountered 

69 


OH,  SHOOT! 

which  really  matched  my  furniture,  and — in 
fact,  there  were  sundry  reasons  why  I  in< 
creased  my  normal  speed  of  limb. 

To  stroll  means  to  advance  carelessly.  I 
strolled  up  to  the  skiff  so  carelessly  that  I 
nearly  broke  a  leg  getting  into  it,  then  headed 
for  the  launch.  Perhaps  a  rear  view  had  con- 
vinced the  bear  that  my  hair  was  too  stiff, 
or  that  I  was  not  sufficiently  well  furred  for 
his  use;  at  any  rate,  he  did  not  pursue  me, 
and  in  fifteen  minutes  I  was  back  again  and 
had  taken  up  the  trail.  Two  hours  later  I 
stumbled  out  of  the  woods,  sweaty,  smelling 
of  blood,  and  supremely  proud  of  a  wet,  heavy 
skin  which  dragged  upon  my  aching  shoulders, 
its  points  trailing  on  the  ground  behind  me. 

It  had  been  a  matter  of  a  quick,  careful 
search  with  the  glasses,  a  brown  blot  creeping 
across  an  open  meadow,  a  lung-bursting  de- 
tour to  leeward,  and  then  a  breathless  descent 
of  the  mountain  side,  till  a  fringe  of  brown  hair 
showed  through  the  grass.  There  had  been  a 
quick  guess  at  where  the  shoulder  should  be, 
a  vision  of  snarling  white  teeth,  and  a  great 
bulk  lifting  itself  up  towards  me;  another 
squint  at  a  hairy  chest  between  two  huge 
forearms,  and  then  three  snap  shots  which 

70 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

were  all  too  high  and  tore  the  sod  as  the  fellow 
went  lumbering  down  the  hill.  Next  a  sud- 
den breaking  down  of  the  hind  quarters, 
and  twenty  yards  farther  a  loosening  of  all 
holds  and  a  crash  into  the  bed  of  a  trickling 
gully. 

As  I  gloated  barbarically  over  the  mag- 
nificent carcass,  up  from  the  woods  across  the 
bay  came  the  sound  of  four  quick,  faint  shots, 
"Bang!  Bang!  Bang!  Bang!"  as  if  Fred  and 
Joe  were  answering  my  recent  fusillade. 

It  took  me  an  hour  to  finish  the  skinning, 
and  as  I  reached  the  launch  I  heard  wild 
shouting  across  the  mud  flats.  On  the  fringe 
of  the  timber  I  saw  the  two  boys. 

"Somebody's  hurt,"  exclaimed  the  engineer, 
but  those  yells  carried  a  different  note  to  me. 

"They've  got  a  bear!"  I  yelled,  gleefully. 
"Fred  has  got  one  at  last."  And  ten  minutes 
later,  while  still  a  half  mile  distant,  he  began 
to  tell  me  about  it.  I  answered  with  my  story, 
neither  of  us  distinguishing  more  than  the  din 
of  his  own  voice. 

"I  got — "  came  Fred's  rejoicing,  while  the 
sun  glinted  on  Joe's  white  teeth  " — big  grizzly, 
color— match— bungalow  EXACTLY!" 

I  ran  towards  them,  joining  in  a  muddy  war 
71 


OH,  SHOOT! 

dance  on  the  sand  bar  which  had  so  kindly 
delayed  our  departure. 

We  all  talked  at  once,  but  my  companion 
had  more  ground  for  joy  than  I,  for  this  was 
his  first  bear,  and  it  had  charged  unexpectedly 
at  a  distance  of  fifty  feet. 

"She  was  coming  so  fast  when  I  saw  her 
that  I  didn't  have  time  to  get  scared,"  said 
Fred,  "and  it  took  four  shots  to  drop  her." 

"He  only  had  four  shells  in  his  gun,"  Joe 
chimed  in,  admiringly.  "He  could  almost 
touch  her  when  she  fell." 

"We  came  back  for  you  and  the  camera. 
Get  your  gun  quick  and  come  with  us;  you 
never  saw  so  many  bear  signs  in  your  life." 

"They've  all  left  the  hills  for  the  flats,"  de- 
clared our  guide.  "That's  why  we've  had 
such  bad  luck.  We'll  get  a  boatload  before 
dark."  So,  taking  time  to  gulp  a  mouthful  of 
cold  food,  we  headed  back  towards  the  thick- 
ets where  Fred  had  disproved  the  old  theory 
that  your  bear  is  a  peaceful  brute  and  will 
never  deliberately  attack  a  man. 

Within  a  mile  of  the  launch  Fred  and  Joe 
had  picked  up  the  tr,ail  of  two  big  grizzlies,  so 
fresh  that  the  moss  was  still  creeping  and 
straightening  where  they  had  stepped.  In  the 

72 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

more  open  stretches  of  the  grove  the  sunlight 
glinted  down  through  the  spruces,  allowing 
the  boys  a  considerable  view,  but  for  the  most 
part  the  thickets  were  nearly  impenetrable. 
The  moss  was  like  a  velvet  rug,  so  noiseless 
that  only  a  snapping  twig  or  a  rubbing  gar- 
ment served  notice  of  their  approach. 

They  had  been  skirting  a  marshy  slew 
tangled  thickly  with  alders  when  they  heard 
a  sudden  commotion  behind  them  and  the 
rush  of  some  great  animal  through  the 
undergrowth. 

' '  There  he  comes !  Give  it  to  him ! ' '  Joe  had 
yelled,  and,  emerging  from  the  brush  fifty  feet 
distant,  had  come  a  big  gray  fellow  headed  di- 
rectly at  them,  running  in  utter  silence.  Fred 
had  never  killed  big  game  nor  seen  a  bear  at 
large,  but  years  on  the  range  and  over  the  traps 
had  quickened  his  eye  and  edged  his  muscles, 
and  his  shot  went  true.  It  is  incredible  that 
any  living  thing  could  have  stood  before  those 
high-powered  bullets,  nevertheless  that  bris- 
tling body  had  never  flinched  nor  wavered. 

"Give  it  to  him  again,"  Joe  had  barked, 
hoarsely,  and  Fred  obeyed,  for  it  had  been  not 
a  question  of  a  clean  shot,  but  simply  of 
emptying  the  magazine  into  that  swiftly  com- 

73 


OH,  SHOOT! 

ing  thing  before  it  was  upon  them.  The 
second  missile  likewise  had  gone  true,  but  still 
there  had  come  no  sign  from  the  silent  animal, 
and  again  Joe  cried  out.  The  brief  delay 
while  the  lever  fell  and  rose  had  brought  the 
brute  into  an  open  glade  and  past  all  ob- 
structions. 

I  remember  thinking,  up  there  on  the  hill 
across  the  bay  when  I  heard  those  four  shots: 
"Both  boys  are  firing.  Those  reports  are  too 
rapid  to  come  from  one  gun";  but  Joe  had 
promised  first  blood  to  Fred  and  he  never 
pulled  trigger  during  the  entire  encounter. 

At  the  third  shot  the  bear  went  to  its  neck 
and  rolled  a  complete  somersault,  but  its  rush 
brought  it  up  to  its  feet  again,  closer  now  and 
still  coming.  At  the  fourth  report,  however, 
it  sank  to  its  haunches,  swung  its  head  from 
side  to  side,  thrust  out  a  massive  forearm,  and 
settled  at  full  length  as  a  tired  man  lies  down. 

"Give  him  another  one  to  make  sure!"  Joe 
directed,  but  this  time  Fred's  carbine  clicked 
on  an  empty  magazine.  He  stepped  to  the 
guide  and  gravely  shook  his  hand,  then  asked: 

"Am  I  as  white  as  you  are,  Joe?" 

Joe  grinned.  "Well,  you're  pretty  white," 
said  he. 

74 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

"But  I  got  him!" 

"You  sure  did!"  Then  they  shook  hands 
again. 

When  they  led  me  to  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy,  I  paced  the  distance  from  Fred's 
boot  tracks  and  his  spent  shells  to  the  carcass, 
and  it  was  a  scant  twenty  feet.  Every  mark 
was  plain  in  the  soft  ground,  even  to  the  leaps 
of  the  bear,  which  we  traced  back  across  the 
twelve-foot  stream  to  its  hiding  place;  and  I 
wish,  at  the  risk  of  arousing  the  ire  of  every 
peaceful  naturalist  and  nature  singer  who  may 
read  this,  to  go  on  record  as  vouching  for  the 
truth  of  this  encounter.  I  assert  this  upon 
the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes  and  the  words  of 
my  two  companions.  The  bear  was  a  female 
Alaskan  brown  grizzly,  so  called.  She  was 
alone,  without  cubs,  and  she  deliberately 
attacked  two  hunters  who  had  passed  her  and 
were  walking  away,  crossing  a  creek  to  get  at 
them. 

We  hunted  these  woods  for  a  week  with 
varying  success;  then,  as  we  were  anxious  to 
be  off  for  the  glaciers,  in  a  moment  of  weak- 
ness we  put  Jack  and  Jill  in  for  a  drive,  while 
Fred  and  I  took  stands  on  the  beaten  trails. 
It  required  thirty-six  hours  to  retrieve  those 
6  75 


OH,  SHOOT! 

dogs,  for  they  became  separated  from  Joe 
while  in  chase  of  a  fretful  porcupine,  and  could 
not  find  their  way  back  to  the  boat.  When 
we  reached  Cordova  we  gave  them  to  a  man 
whom  we  did  not  like,  first  exacting  from  him  a 
solemn  promise  that  he  would  give  them  a  bad 
home  and  treat  them  unkindly. 

In  the  brief  time  we  had  been  camped  on 
the  island  the  railroad  had  stretched  itself 
onward  to  the  lower  crossing  of  the  Copper 
River,  so  we  loaded  a  skiff  upon  one  of  Mr. 
Heney's  flat  cars  and  saw  it  safely  into  the 
muddy  waters  of  the  stream. 

The  Alaskan  glacial  region,  for  which  we 
were  bound,  is  very  extensive;  in  fact,  the 
entire  coast  from  Wrangel  on  the  east,  which 
lies  close  up  against  the  Canadian  border,  to 
Cook  Inlet,  a  thousand  miles  west,  is  ice-bur- 
dened. The  north  Pacific  thrashes  against 
the  base  of  a  saw-toothed  range  which  sweeps 
in  a  great  curve,  forming  the  Gulf  of  Alaska, 
and  it  is  this  towering,  jumbled  confusion  of 
peaks  which  mothers  the  ice  fields.  The, 
heights  in  places  are  saddled  with  prodigious 
areas  of  ice,  the  spurs  of  which  creep  down 
through  rents  and  gaps  to  lower  altitudes,  or 
grind  their  tortuous  courses  outward  to  the 

76 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

sea.  Those  which  front  navigable  waters 
have  been  well  stared  at  by  a  generation  of 
tourists,  but  there  are  other  fields  which  lie 
back  from  the  coast  and  are  but  vaguely 
mapped,  as,  for  instance,  those  which  debouch 
upon  the  Copper  River  at  the  head  of  the 
delta.  It  was  thither  that  I  had  been  aching  to 
go  these  two  years  past,  and  it  was  thither  we 
were  headed  now  in  our  skiff,  the  river  having 
finally  broken,  to  investigate  for  ourselves 
this  place  of  mystery,  to  see  at  close  range 
those  famed  bear  tracks  which  had  smoothed 
the  rocks. 

Considerable  ice  was  running,  among  the 
hurrying  fragments  of  which  the  head  of  an 
occasional  seal  glistened.  The  delta  was  bare, 
but  the  mile-high  mountains  at  our  left  were 
white  wherever  the  cliffs  were  not  too  steep. 
Every  crevice  and  gutter  amid  the  peaks 
emptied  itself  at  midday  in  a  cascade  of  snow, 
and,  warmed  by  the  sun,  the  whole  range 
rumbled  under  these  avalanches,  some  tiny, 
some  huge,  all  adding  to  the  vast  snow-dumps 
at  the  foot  of  the  wall.  Whenever,  with  the 
glasses,  we  observed  a  trail  crossing  these  up- 
tilted  white  fields,  we  landed,  crossed  the 
flats,  and  waded  up  to  it.  If  it  was  recent,  we 

77 


OH,  SHOOT! 

followed;  if  not,  we  resumed  our  laborious 
journey,  for  there,  apparently  a  half  day's  trip 
ahead  of  us,  beckoned  the  glaciers.  But  when 
we  camped  the  first  night,  in  a  bleak  thicket 
of  willows,  although  a  goodly  distance  lay 
behind  us  as  payment  for  our  day's  effort,  we 
seemed  no  closer  to  our  goal. 

It  was  raining  the  next  morning,  but  Joe 
and  I  were  off  early  along  the  foot  of  the  steeps, 
and  a  mile  from  camp  we  saw  a  bear  approach- 
ing leisurely.  We  crouched,  watching  him 
through  the  glasses  until  he  dipped  out  of 
sight,  then  we  ran  as  far  towards  him  as  we 
dared.  Again  we  waited,  under  cover  this 
time,  but  he  did  not  reappear,  so  I  swung  up 
the  mountain  side  over  a  bluff,  while  Joe 
advanced  along  the  valley.  Before  I  could 
reach  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  however,  I  saw 
my  companion  aim  up  a  gully  and  heard  the 
"spat"  of  his  rifle.  He  emptied  his  maga- 
zine twice  before  I  emerged  upon  the  summit 
— with  the  animal  seven  hundred  yards  be- 
yond and  above  me. 

Together  we  aroused  the  echoes,  but  the 
snow  gave  no  evidence  as  to  our  aim,  and  when 
the  bear  made  off  along  the  mountain  side 
Joe  set  out  like  a  Marathon  runner  to  parallel 

78 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

his  course.  I  shouted  directions  and  guided 
him  by  my  waving  arms,  for  there  was  no  hope 
of  my  catching  up.  With  a  lucky  shot,  when 
the  bear  showed  against  the  nose  of  a  promon- 
tory, Joe  inflicted  a  foot  wound,  at  which  the 
animal  paused  an  instant  to  snap,  and  then 
together  they  dipped  out  of  sight,  to  show 
again  a  mile  farther  on,  running  neck  and  neck. 

I  descended  and  followed  for  a  time,  then 
headed  back  towards  camp  in  disgust,  only  to 
see  approaching  across  the  very  bluff  whence  I 
had  signaled,  another  bear,  the  counterpart  of 
Joe's  running  mate.  I  sized  up  its  course, 
then,  backing  out  of  sight,  commenced  to 
climb.  Lord!  How  I  climbed.  It  was  like 
running  up  the  endless  slope  of  a  slippery 
church  roof. 

When  I  played  out  completely  and  could 
go  no  farther,  I  crept  out  for  a  look,  but  the 
snows  were  as  clean  as  paper.  Manifestly 
some  whim  had  altered  Bruin's  route  and  he 
had  gone  up  that  same  seam  by  which  the 
first  bear  had  eluded  us.  That  meant  more 
climbing,  now,  so  up  towards  the  summit  of 
the  five-thousand-foot  range  I  scrambled, 
while  the  higher  I  went  the  steeper  it  grew 
and  the  louder  I  puffed.  Eventually  the 

79 


OH,  SHOOT! 

snow  field  I  was  ascending  narrowed  into  a 
gutter  between  bold  cliffs  through  which  had 
poured  the  countless  tons  forming  the  great 
drift  below.  I  came  into  a  chute  where  the 
bottom  was  like  glass  and  where  I  was  in 
fear  some  playful  avalanche  might  send  me 
whizzing  down  that  two-thousand-foot  to- 
boggan. Below  and  back  of  me  lay  forty  flat 
miles  of  alluvial  plain ;  in  front  of  me  the  wall 
reared  itself  to  perpetual  white. 

I  was  wheezing  upward  on  all-fours,  my 
lungs  bursting,  my  pores  dripping,  when  I  saw 
the  bear  crossing  over  my  head  where  the 
defile  widened,  funnellike.  It  was  similar  to 
target  practice  up  the  slant  of  a  spire  with 
nothing  to  indicate  the  range,  but  some  un- 
natural movement  of  the  brute  told  me  I  was 
shooting  close.  Before  I  could  recharge  the 
magazine,  however,  he  was  across  the  slide  and 
swallowed  up  in  the  alders.  Another  hard 
climb,  and  the  red  snow  told  me  he  was  indeed 
wounded.  But  how  to  get  him  out,  now  that 
he  had  the  advantage?  I  gouged  more  toe- 
holds with  my  Remington  and  pursued  my 
ascent  until  the  snow  lay  at  such  an  angle  that 
I  feared  my  weight  might  start  it,  then  crept 
gingerly  into  the  brush. 

80 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

An  hour  later  I  was  still  flattened  against 
the  slope,  working  my  way  through  the  hang- 
ing alders,  when  I  spied  Joe  far  below  me, 
returning.  He  heard  my  signal  and  came 
toiling  upward. 

"Mine  got  away!"  he  called,  when  within 
speaking  distance,  "but  this  feller  won't  get 
far,  bleeding  like  that." 

Together  we  wormed  our  way  through  the 
tangle,  here  searching  out  a  broken  twig, 
there  noting  a  leaf  spotted  red.  We  were 
perched  upon  a  ledge  thickly  obstructed  with 
vegetation,  when  the  bear  rose  to  his  haunches 
immediately  in  front  of  us. 

"Let  him  have  it!"  said  Joe,  kneeling  to 
afford  me  room.  "I  'ain't  got  but  one  shell." 

"Look  out  for  your  ears,"  I  cautioned,  aim- 
ing over  his  shoulder.  It  was  a  hard  shot  at 
those  two  red  eyes  through  the  leaves,  for  I 
was  contorted  and  unbalanced  by  the  slanting 
alder  trunks  and  my  footing  was  insecure. 

"You  got  him!"  Joe  cried,  but  when  we  ad- 
vanced the  animal  had  disappeared  as  if  by 
magic,  leaving  neither  trace  nor  trail. 

"He's  down  yonder  somewhere.  I  heard 
him  fall." 

We  could  see  nothing,  so  we  lowered  our- 
81 


OH,  SHOOT! 

selves  blindly,  swinging  clear  in  places,  trust- 
ing to  roots  and  branches,  until  we  were 
halted  by  a  sheer  drop  and  must  needs  climb 
back  by  crevice  and  finger-hold,  then  worm 
ourselves  sidewise  for  a  hundred  feet  to  an 
easier  point  of  descent. 

Sure  enough,  the  bear  lay  wedged  in  be- 
tween the  snow  and  the  foot  of  the  precipice, 
three  hundred  feet  below  where  I  had  shot, 
and  when  we  had  boosted  him  free,  away  he 
went  again,  rolling,  tumbling,  somersaulting, 
his  tongue  lolling,  his  legs  flopping  loosely. 
We  planted  our  feet,  and,  leaning  back  against 
our  rifles,  skidded  after.  A  clump  of  willow 
tops  saved  him  and  us  from  a  plunge  into  the 
stream — and  we  had  him.  Such  a  pelt  for 
softness  and  beauty  I  have  seldom  seen.  It 
matched  the  library,  and  I  am  ankle  deep  in 
it  as  I  write. 

After  the  first  day  the  speed  of  the  waters 
rendered  oars  useless,  so  we  bent  a  hundred- 
foot  line  to  the  bow  of  our  skiff  and  another 
shorter  one  to  the  stern,  then  gave  ourselves 
over  to  the  labors  of  "lining."  The  two  men 
on  the  forward  rope  gave  us  motive  power, 
while  the  third  member  of  the  party  steered 
with  the  stern  line. 

82 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

Day  after  day  we  bent  to  our  towlines  and 
toiled  onward,  with  the  muddy  water  boiling 
past,  and  still  those  glaciers  retreated  ahead 
of  us.  Gradually  the  current  became  swifter 
and  the  floating  ice  larger,  until  to  avoid  it  be- 
came a  matter  of  importance.  This  rendered 
the  rear  man's  duties  more  difficult  and  required 
the  exercise  of  some  skill  and  judgment,  for 
it  is  no  infant's  task  to  navigate  a  heavy-laden, 
flat-bottom  skiff  up  through  a  freshet  clogged 
with  40  h.p.  bergs,  every  one  of  which  is  ex- 
ceeding the  speed  limit.  An  insufficient  drag 
on  the  stern  line  and  the  craft  may  be  ground 
to  splinters  against  the  rocks;  a  pull  too  vio- 
lent and  the  bow  is  thrown  across  the  current 
at  such  an  angle  that  the  vicious  force  of  the 
waters  capsizes  it.  In  either  event  the  outfit 
is  lost. 

The  banks  were  overhung  with  "sweepers" 
and  thick  with  brush,  through  which  we 
wormed  our  way  and  around  which  we  passed 
our  ropes.  When  we  undertook  to  make  a 
crossing,  in  spite  of  our  most  frantic  efforts  we 
landed  far  below.  And  we  were  not  in  the 
main  river,  by  any  means.  We  waded  bars 
waist-deep;  we  fell  in  up  to  our  ears;  we 
tugged  and  hauled  with  aching  arms  and  blis- 

83 


OH,  SHOOT! 

tered  palms,  virtually  ascending  that  stream 
hand  over  hand  as  a  man  climbs  a  rope.  We 
worked  until  we  were  all  in,  then  camped,  or 
went  hunting,  for  it  was  daylight  always, 
excepting  only  an  hour's  twilight  at  midnight. 

On  one  such  night  we  scaled  Sheridan 
Glacier,  a  great,  dead  thing  of  ice  and  desola- 
tion which  lay  back  next  to  the  range,  sepa- 
rated from  the  river  by  a  confusion  of  lakes  and 
ponds  and  beaver  dams.  These  dead  glaciers 
differ  from  live  ones  only  in  that  they  are  now 
motionless  and  gradually  melting  year  by  year 
as  the  elements  prey  upon  them. 

We  began  to  feel  that  we  were  entering 
another  world,  a  region  of  wonders  where 
living  things  were  minute  and  inconsequent 
and  where  the  dead  forces  of  nature  were  so 
hugely  manifested  as  to  dwarf  all  else,  and, 
while  ostensibly  we  were  hunting,  in  reality  we 
were  merely  looking.  All  day  the  narrowing 
mountain  walls  rumbled  with  avalanches,  all 
night  the  faint  thunder  of  rending  glaciers 
and  tumbling  bergs  rolled  down  upon  us.  In 
miles  the  distance  we  had  to  traverse  was  not 
great,  but  in  labor  and  isolation  it  was 
tremendous. 

Late  one  June  evening,  after  a  killing  day, 
84 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

we  stumbled  up  through  a  gorge  where  all  the 
waters  of  the  Copper  River  are  confined.  It 
is  a  roaring  place,  for  the  waves  lift  themselves 
head-high  and  the  ice  scuds  by  with  the  speed 
of  wild  horses.  An  Arctic  twilight  was  over 
all — that  diffusive  radiance  through  which  the 
sight  travels  so  far — when  we  finally  rounded 
a  bend  into  an  eddy,  and  paused  to  breathe 
and  to  observe  that  Thing  which  loomed 
suddenly  before  us. 

I  hope  never  to  lose  the  memory  of  that  first 
impression.  There  was  Childs  Glacier  at  last, 
with  the  ravenous  river  gnawing  at  it,  a  tower- 
ing wall  of  solid  ice,  serrated  and  seamed,  the 
dead  gray  ness  of  infinite  age  upon  its  face. 
And  so  close !  We  fairly  felt  its  presence  before 
we  sensed  the  chill  breath  which  swept  down 
from  it.  There  were  no  intervening  miles  to 
rob  it  of  its  grandeur;  its  very  proximity  was 
terrifying,  it  was  so  strange,  so  unknown,  so 
lifeless,  and  yet  so  menacing. 

We  heard  ourselves  exclaiming,  but  our 
spoken  words  were  a  profanation  in  such  a 
presence. 

A  great  berg,  an  acre  in  extent,  came  swiftly 
towards  us,  the  saffron  waters  licking  at  its 
sides.  It  was  as  blue  as  a  summer  sky,  and 

8s 


OH,  SHOOT! 

it  came  as  if  gliding  on  steep,  well-oiled  skids. 
When  abreast  of  us  it  halted,  then  lifted  itself 
up,  up,  up  until  it  towered  like  a  ship  in  dry 
dock,  while  the  yellow  flood  roared  savagely 
at  the  delay.  There  came  a  dull  rumbling  and 
grinding,  much  like  the  sound  of  a  heavy  train 
in  a  tunnel,  as  its  own  momentum  and  the 
resistless  force  of  the  river  drove  it  higher 
and  higher  upon  the  detaining  bar.  It  shud- 
dered, swung  slowly,  then  commenced  to  roll  be- 
fore the  current  like  thistledown  in  a  draught. 
The  sound  ceased,  the  mass  dived  suddenly 
from  view,  then  reappeared  slowly,  shook  off 
the  surging  waters,  and  was  away  again, 
running  faster  and  faster.  Silent  as  a  ghost, 
it  vanished  around  the  bluff  below  us. 

We  bent  our  puny  efforts  to  the  skiff  and 
crept  onward,  our  eyes  too  busy  to  heed  the 
boulders  which  tripped  us  and  rolled  beneath 
our  feet.  Gradually  the  bluff  beneath  which 
we  walked  became  higher  and  steeper  until  it 
must  have  been  fifty  feet  high  and  overhung 
as  if  cut  out  by  the  action  of  a  heavy  surf.  At 
the  time  we  did  not  note  the  significance  of 
this,  for  we  were  engrossed  in  the  spectacle 
opposite;  but  later  we  had  ample  cause  to 
remember  the  peculiar  formation. 

S6 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

In  places  the  ice  wall  opposite  was  like 
crusted  snow,  again  it  was  opaque  or  cloudy, 
while  beyond  or  above  were  patches  ranging 
from  pale  azure  to  the  purple  that  lurks  in  a 
mountain  valley.  These  vivid  colors  lay  often 
in  ribbons,  and  the  melting  streamlets  from 
above  had  likewise  laced  the  glacier's  front 
with  delicate  chocolate  lines  like  the  wrinkles 
in  the  face  of  a  hag.  And  always  the  hungry 
river  gnawed  it. 

We  were  opposite  the  lower  shoulder,  where 
the  ice  cliffs  overhung,  when  the  glacier  spoke 
for  the  first  time.  There  was  a  boom  like  the 
report  of  a  cannon  many  times  multiplied,  and 
a  half  mile  ahead  of  us  a  piece  of  ice  detached 
itself,  then  plunged  a  hundred  feet  sheer  down- 
ward into  the  river.  It  left  another  blue  scar 
for  the  air  slowly  to  bleach.  We  had  heard  of 
the  peril  from  falling  bergs — stories  of  boats 
swamped  by  the  waves,  of  men  caught  beneath 
the  overhanging  banks  and  swept  away — but 
we  had  put  them  down  as  fanciful  and  exag- 
gerated, so  when  Joe  dropped  the  towline  and 
dashed  excitedly  back  towards  the  skiff  I  was 
inclined  to  laugh. 

"Look  out  for  the  boat!"  he  cried. 

My  answer  was  framed  when  the  surface 
87 


OH,  SHOOT! 

of  the  water  upstream  seemed  to  hump  itself 
and  a  swell  came  curling  down  along  the  shore, 
urged  by  the  current.  It  was  coming  faster 
than  a  man  could  run  and,  although  insig- 
nificant at  first,  of  a  sudden  it  assumed  the 
proportions  of  an  ocean  roller.  We  seized 
the  gunwales  and  plunged  in  up  to  our  waists, 
but  the  water  sucked  away  from  the  shore 
while  the  boat  bumped  and  slid  and  tilted  over 
the  rocks;  then,  as  suddenly,  we  were  sub- 
merged to  our  armpits  and  found  ourselves 
struggling  to  discover  bottom  and  to  keep  the 
skiff  from  overriding  us  as  we  were  swept  up 
the  embankment. 

"Hold  fast!"  we  yelled  to  Fred  on  the  end 
of  the  line,  and  he  set  his  heels  against  the 
rocks,  wrapping  himself  with  the  rope  like  the 
anchor  man  on  a  tug-of-war  team. 

We  felt  bottom  again,  and  again  we  were 
sucked  downward,  with  our  arms  half  dragged 
from  their  sockets. 

When  the  commotion  had  at  last  subsided 
and  our  badly  wrenched  and  now  badly  leaking 
craft  was  again  in  the  river,  Joe  observed: 

"One  more  of  those  and  we  won't  have  any 
boat.  And  that  was  a  small  one,  too!" 

It  was  perhaps  ten  minutes  later  that  a  tre- 

88 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

mendous  sound  echoed  behind  us  and  we 
whirled  to  see  such  a  sight  as  I  had  but  vaguely 
dreamed  of.  Directly  opposite  the  point  of 
our  encounter  with  the  wave  a  towering 
column  of  ice  had  split  itself  away  from  the 
face  and  was  leaning  slowly  outward.  Faster 
and  faster  it  moved,  its  summit  describing  a 
great  arc,  until  with  one  terrific  roar  it  plunged 
its  length  across  the  flood,  flinging  tons  of 
water  up,  up  until  they  seemed  to  reach  the 
level  of  the  glacier  top  itself,  only  to  fall  back 
and  add  to  the  chaos  beneath.  The  ice  did 
not  crumble  nor  break,  but  fell  proudly  in 
solid  column,  stretching  a  third  of  the  distance 
across  the  river's  bed,  its  vast  bulk  damming 
the  stream. 

It  was  much  as  if  the  Flatiron  Building  had 
leaned  forth  from  its  foundations  and  plunged 
to  destruction.  At  the  moment  of  impact 
there  was  an  explosion  as  if  from  a  terrific 
charge  of  powder,  which  hurled  missiles  a 
hundred  pounds  in  weight  in  long  parabolas 
across  the  torrent  and  far  into  the  brush 
beyond.  Then  out  from  beneath  the  mass 
rushed  a  gigantic  wave,  growing  as  it  raced 
towards  the  shore  where  we  had  been  but  a 
few  moments  before. 

89 


OH,  SHOOT! 

We  heard  the  sound  of  that  tidal  wave  as 
it  bore  down  upon  the  fifty-foot  bluff  which 
we  had  just  passed.  And  we  now  recognized 
the  force  which  had  cut  it  out  —  a  quarter 
mile  of  it — and  had  changed  a  slope  into  a 
perpendicular  wall  up  which  no  man  could 
possibly  have  climbed.  To  be  caught  in 
such  a  trap  would  have  been  to  perish  cer- 
tainly. We  saw  the  wave  engulf  the  land, 
then  surge  over  and  beyond  it  up  into  the 
alder  trees,  which  swayed  and  whipped  each 
other  frantically.  It  was  terrific,  appalling, 
unspeakably  tremendous. 

We  found  ourselves  straining  at  our  boat  in 
an  endeavor  to  avoid  the  path  of  that  swell, 
but  the  furious  current  all  but  killed  it  before 
it  reached  upstream  to  us  and  we  were  merely 
bruised  and  battered  as  before.  Had  we  been 
ten  minutes  later,  however,  it  would  have 
meant  our  destruction.  Twice  more  did  this 
thing  occur  before  we  had  covered  those 
treacherous  three  miles  along  the  glacier,  but 
each  time  we  were  above  the  scene  and  the 
racing  current  saved  us. 

I  think  we  grew  somewhat  frightened, 
walled  in  against  that  Presence  by  the  steep 
banks;  at  any  rate,  at  every  explosion  we 

90 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

fetched  up  violently  at  the  end  of  our  towlines, 
backs  to  the  wall,  like  tethered  steers,  and 
when  the  last  unstable  precipice  was  behind 
us  we  congratulated  ourselves. 

But  an  even  greater  wonder  confronted  us. 
The  river  turned  at  right  angles  and  there 
stood  Miles  Glacier,  the  big  brother  to  Childs, 
which  we  had  just  passed.  It  fronted  us 
boldly,  a  gunshot  distant,  so  it  seemed,  a 
huge,  desolate  monster  thrice  the  size  of  Man- 
hattan Island,  with  a  ragged  base  five  miles 
across,  wedged  into  a  valley  so  tightly  that  it 
seemed  to  split  the  mountains  asunder.  In 
reality  it  was  four  miles  away,  but  we  saw  its 
every  smallest  detail  and  followed  it  with  our 
eyes  up  into  the  range  until  it  melted  into  dis- 
tances which  no  man  has  ever  covered.  Its 
edges  were  dead  and  blackened  as  if  by  decay; 
in  places  its  front  looked  like  a  row  of  gigantic 
white-cowled  monks.  The  lake  which  lapped 
it,  in  reality  a  broadening  of  the  river,  was 
choked  with  drifting  ruins  of  ice  held  prisoner 
by  a  bar  at  the  lower  end  where  the  waters 
escaped.  Pastured  thus,  the  bergs  cruised 
lonesomely,  drifted  by  wind  and  wave,  towed 
in  fantastic  figures  by  unseen  eddies.  At 
times  they  clashed,  or  charged  in  long  forma- 

7  91 


OH,  SHOOT! 

tions,  as  if  this  were  a  martial  field  for  those 
two  dead,  yet  living,  rivals  which  had  roared 
and  gnashed  at  each  other  since  the  beginnings 
of  time. 

The  vanguard  of  Mr.  Heney's  army  was 
here — a  handful  of  engineers  drilling  for  bed- 
rock on  the  site  of  his  upper  bridge.  That 
bridge,  by  the  way,  now  spans  the  river  be- 
tween the  ice  fields,  allowing  the  railroad, 
which  dodges  past  the  face  of  one  of  them,  to 
avoid  the  other  by  crossing  back.  That  little 
zigzag  meant  millions  of  dollars  in  steel  and 
rock  and  cement,  but  beyond  lie  countless  tons 
of  copper  ore. 

We  camped  on  the  promontory  which  lies 
between  the  glaciers,  where  some  day  will 
stand  the  most  famous  tourists'  hotel  on  the 
continent,  for  the  time  is  surely  coming  when 
men  and  women  will  journey  thither  from  all 
quarters  of  the  globe.  Day  and  night,  at 
intervals,  the  giants  bombarded  each  other, 
the  action  increasing  with  the  rising  waters. 
It  awoke  us  in  the  night,  it  awed  us  in  the  day. 
It  filled  us  with  a  sense  of  such  tremendous 
destruction  that  we  watched  jealously,  as  if 
each  spectacle  might  be  the  last.  The  mind 
could  not  grasp  the  fact  that,  no  matter  how 

92 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

great  or  how  rapid  the  ruin,  there  was  an  inex- 
haustible supply  of  ice  constantly  edging  for- 
ward to  take  the  place  of  that  which  fell  off. 
We  felt  as  if  the  glaciers  must  surely  destroy 
themselves,  but  a  week  of  warm  weather, 
during  which  the  breakage  was  constant,  had 
no  visible  effect  upon  them.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  those  glaciers  are  still  there,  although 
they  have  been  working  for  several  years,  so 
many  years,  to  be  exact — and  let  us  be  exact — 
that  if  a  geologist  were  to  begin  to  figure  it 
out  when  he  left  college  he  would  have  a  gray 
beard  so  long  it  would  trip  him  up  before  he 
had  finished  the  problem. 

After  a  particularly  large  cave-in  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  engineers  to  search  the  rocks 
for  king  salmon  thrown  out  by  the  waves. 
The  bears  were  likewise  fishing  up  at  the 
rapids — the  surveyors  had  seen  them  through 
their  transits — so  on  the  afternoon  following 
our  arrival  we  set  out  across  the  lake,  searching 
our  way  through  the  drift  ice. 

"Look  out  for  the  eddy  below  the  cataract," 
they  admonished  us.  "If  your  boat  gets  into 
that  you  won't  get  out.  Keep  as  close  to  the 
glacier  as  you  dare — but  not  too  close,  either, 
or  a  tidal  wave  may  swamp  you." 

93 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Out  on  the  lake  we  began  to  feel  more  fully 
the  immensity  and  the  desolation  of  this  place. 
We  were  in  a  forgotten  spot  where  man's 
presence  was  a  desecration.  Out  through 
every  rent  and  crevice  in  the  mountain  walls 
glaciers  large  and  small  stared  at  us  with  dead, 
blind  eyes.  Floating  all  about  us  were  bergs 
from  the  size  of  a  water  goblet  to  the  size  of 
the  Lusitania,  and  they  were  green  or  white 
or  blue  or  purple;  some  carried  cargoes  of 
dripping  mud,  others  were  weighted  with 
piles  of  rock.  Sometimes  they  rolled  as 
if  weary  of  their  prehistoric  burdens  or  as  if 
seeking  more  easy  positions,  each  movement 
uplifting  new  angles  and  utterly  changing 
their  outlines.  We  traced  features  of  men 
and  shapes  of  beasts  in  them.  Some  wore  pre- 
posterous hats,  millinered  by  the  sun  itself. 
They  filed  about  in  an  aimless  yet  ordered 
confusion,  pirouetting,  bowing,  sailing  off  at 
apparently  causeless  tangents. 

It  was  a  goblin  place  until  one  recognized 
the  forces  which  did  the  shifting  as  nothing 
more  supernatural  than  currents  and  rips 
formed  by  the  great  cataract  which  dashed  in 
from  above,  together  with  the  hidden  stream 
which  flowed  out  from  beneath  the  glacier  it- 

94 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

self.  Repeatedly  we  found  ourselves  spinning 
in  the  grip  of  an  eddy,  with  a  herd  of  icebergs 
wallowing  behind  us.  I  remember  one  sea- 
green  fellow  which  followed  at  our  stern, 
lunging  after  us  no  matter  whither  we  turned, 
or  were  turned,  and  which  it  took  us  several 
minutes  to  shake  off. 

We  landed,  then  worked  our  way  up  past 
the  cataract,  where  the  river  leaped  and  bel- 
lowed and  the  snow  banks  overhung.  It  was 
much  like  the  Royal  Gorge  below  Niagara, 
only  there  were  no  plank  promenades  nor 
souvenir  postal  cards.  The  opposite  side  was 
a  sheer  mountain  slope  slashed  here  and  there 
by  snow  slides.  On  one  of  these  we  saw  a 
bear.  While  we  were  watching  him,  another 
one  came  in  sight  a  half  mile  upstream.  The 
two  crept  down  to  the  edge  and  began  to  fish, 
standing  motionless  above  the  eddies  where 
the  salmon  rested,  to  execute  at  intervals  a 
lightning-like  flip  with  their  forepaws  and 
send  a  silver  fish  whirling  out  upon  the  bank. 

The  first  animal  was  in  range,  but  Fred 
declared  its  color  was  wrong. 

"  If  you  get  him  he'll  cost  you  a  new  carpet," 
he  said,  so  we  crept  up  opposite  the  other,  the 
tumult  of  the  canon  drowning  our  approach. 

95 


OH,  SHOOT! 

It  was  a  long  shot,  but  we  wounded  him,  then, 
realizing  that  he  would  surely  roll  into  the 
flood  if  he  loosed  his  hold  for  one  single  in- 
stant, we  allowed  him  to  scramble  up  into  the 
brush  and  then  prepared  to  go  after  him.  It 
meant  a  nine-mile  trip  back  over  the  moraine 
to  our  boat,  out  through  those  ice  fields  and 
eddies  to  the  western  shore,  then  up  along  the 
side  of  the  canon  and  into  the  brush,  but  it 
promised  a  new  problem  in  the  way  of  bear 
hunting,  namely,  first  to  search  out  the  bear, 
then  to  hold  him  against  the  mountain  side; 
so  we  turned  back. 

We  were  a  mile  from  our  skiff  when  Joe 
paused. 

' '  Look !    Look  at  them  tracks ! ' ' 

We  whistled  in  unison,  for  in  front  of  us 
was  a  trail  so  huge  as  to  seem  unreal  and  so 
fresh  that  we  cocked  our  guns  nervously. 

"Let's  get  after  him!"  we  whispered,  and 
away  we  sped  over  the  glacial  debris,  picking 
up  the  track  wherever  it  crossed  the  snow. 
On  the  rock  ridges  we  went  by  guess,  craning 
cautiously  into  each  gully  and  past  each  sum- 
mit, for  the  ground  was  indescribably  broken 
and  we  did  not  wish  to  step  on  this  particular 
bear. 

96 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

It  was  Joe's  good  luck — we  chose  to  call  it 
luck — to  get  the  first  shot.  He  was  hidden 
from  us  when  we  heard  his  toy  rifle  speak  and 
tore  madly  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
Half  a  minute  later  "Spat ! "  it  went  again,  and 
then  came  two  more  shots  in  rapid  succession. 
It  was  worth  a  man's  life  to  run  on  such  jagged 
footing,  but  we  had  an  idea  that  this  was  to  be 
a  battle  and  we  knew  that  Joe  was  alone  with 
the  largest  animal  we  had  met. 

Sure  enough,  as  I  dashed  across  a  snow  field, 
I  saw  our  guide  suddenly  appear  on  the  ridge 
above  me  like  a  phantom,  silhouetted  against 
the  evening  sky.  He  was  bareheaded — it  took 
us  three  days  to  find  his  hat — his  rubber  boots 
were  straddling  at  a  ridiculous  distance  from 
each  other,  and  he  was  hitting  it  off  at  the 
rate  of  one  hundred  yards  in  nothing  and 
three-fifths  seconds.  He  was  looking  back- 
ward over  his  shoulder,  fumbling  at  his  hip 
pocket  for  shells;  nevertheless,  he  coursed  over 
those  loose  boulders  with  the  sureness  of  foot 
of  a  mountain  goat.  He  dipped  out  of  sight 
as  suddenly  as  he  had  appeared.  I  heard  him 
cracking  away  again,  then  the  louder  report 
of  Fred's  rifle. 

An  instant  later  I  reached  the  top  and, 
97 


OH,  SHOOT! 

glimpsing  a  huge  brown  body  rushing  towards 
us  in  prodigious  leaps,  I  joined  in  the  fusillade. 
The  monster's  great  weight  bore  him  deeply 
into  the  snow,  which  he  flung  behind  him  at 
every  plunge,  and  yet,  shocked  and  torn  by 
those  exploding  bullets,  he  still  came  on  and 
on,  a  tremendous,  ungainly  figure  of  rage  and 
determination. 

Even  when  he  was  down  to  his  haunches 
and  deathly  sick,  he  reddened  the  snow  in  a 
futile  endeavor  to  continue  that  charge.  It 
was  a  magnificent  exhibition  of  courage,  and 
he  died  facing  us,  as  befits  a  monarch,  the  red 
glare  of  rage  still  in  his  eye. 

"Whew!  I  certainly  stepped  around  a  bit 
that  time/'  said  Joe,  wiping  the  sweat  out  of 
his  eyes.  "My  first  four  shots  never  fazed 
him,  so  I  thought  I'd  sort  of  withdraw  and 
reload  on  the  run,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to 
locate  you  fellers  nowhere." 

We  had  no  means  of  measuring  our  prize, 
but  the  carcass  was  tremendous,  so  large,  in 
fact,  that  our  united  efforts  were  barely  suffi- 
cient to  roll  it  over.  The  skin  stretched  twelve 
feet  in  curing. 

We  ate  our  midnight  supper  on  the  sands 
beside  a  driftwood  fire,  then  rowed  out  through 

98 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

the  whirling  eddies  and  around  to  the  opposite 
shore,  for  we  had  not  forgotten  that  wounded 
bear.  A  mile  over  ice  and  mud  brought  us  to 
a  wide,  swift  slew  which  we  did  not  know 
existed  and  which  was  running  ice.  We  were 
tired  of  detours,  so  we  stood  ankle-deep  in  the 
slime  beside  a  snow  bank  and  undressed,  then, 
with  our  clothes  and  rifles  above  our  heads, 
we  waded  in. 

It  was  very  funny!  In  fact,  it  handed  us 
the  best  laugh  of  the  trip.  When  Joe  rose 
upon  his  tiptoes  and  gingerly  ballet-danced 
into  that  yellow  stream,  Fred  and  I  shrieked 
with  glee,  he  made  such  funny  noises  and 
looked  so  white  and  tender.  From  the  far- 
ther bank  he  turned  upon  us  a  drawn  and 
sour  visage,  which  changed  at  sight  of  Fred, 
who  had  suddenly  fallen  silent  at  feel  of  the 
water. 

Never  in  the  same  space  of  time  have  I 
endured  more  bitter  suffering  than  that  gla- 
cial stream  inflicted.  When  halfway  across  I 
stumbled  on  a  boulder  and  dived  completely 
out  of  sight,  holding  desperately  the  while  to 
my  bundle.  The  other  boys  choked  and  chat- 
tered hysterically.  To  dress  in  dripping  gar- 
ments on  a  snow  bank  at  3  A.M.  is  perhaps  the 

99 


OH,  SHOOT! 

king  of  outdoor  sports — it  makes  one  feel  so 
manly  and  strong  and  rheumatic. 

We  chipped  footholds  in  the  crusted  snow- 
slides  which  overhung  the  rapids,  creeping 
cautiously  along  slopes  where  a  misstep  or  a 
slip  meant  a  downward  shoot  of  a  hundred 
feet  into  the  torrent.  We  were  clinging  thus 
at  one  point  when  two  brown  bears  met  us, 
but  there  was  no  chance  to  save  them  had  we 
fired,  and  they  were  off  after  one  frightened 
whiff  of  us.  Nor  could  we  find  the  fellow  we 
had  wounded,  search  as  we  might,  so  back  we 
went  across  those  hair-raising,  slippery  tobog- 
gans again,  balancing  in  the  toeholds  we  had 
previously  made.  Again  we  waded  Chinaman 
Charlie  Slew,  with  its  slush  ice  up  to  our  chests, 
and,  thirty-six  hours  after  leaving,  dragged 
ourselves  back  into  camp. 

To  the  hunter  there  is  an  unwearying  variety 
to  his  "kills,"  yet  in  the  telling  I  dare  say  they 
are  all  much  alike.  One  episode,  however,  is 
worth  recounting.  In  crossing  a  torrent  by 
the  familiar  tree-trunk  route  Fred  met  a  black 
bear  which  seemed  late  for  an  appointment. 
Off  it  went  into  the  foam  below  at  the  first 
shot,  only  to  rush  out  and  up  the  hillside, 
with  Fred  teetering  on  his  perch  like  a  canary 

100 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

and  firing  at  every  glimpse.  The  animal  had 
gained  complete  cover  when  it  released  all 
holds  and  came  rolling  back  down  into  the 
torrent,  to  be  swept  away,  with  Fred  legging 
along  behind  until  he  could  wade  in  and  drag 
out  his  victim  by  the  ears. 

We  had  matched  all  the  shades  of  our  wall 
paper  now,  save  only  that  in  my  blue  room, 
but  a  blue,  or  "glacier,"  bear,  rarest  of  speci- 
mens, is  killed  perhaps  once  in  a  lifetime.  I 
scoured  the  glaciers  until  I  went  snow-blind 
and  could  not  tell  a  black  from  a  grizzly.  We 
saw  a  pair  of  blues  one  night  on  the  Miles 
moraine,  and  followed  until  our  legs  gave  out, 
whereupon  Joe  left  Fred  and  me  behind 
and  continued  the  pursuit,  returning  empty- 
handed  after  a  total  of  forty-eight  hours'  travel. 

Time  was  when  I  dared  any  man  to  outlast 
me,  but  subways  and  pavements  and  hotel 
cooking  have  so  ruined  my  usefulness  that  a 
paltry  thirty  miles  of  hill  and  valley  renders 
me  a  burden  upon  the  community,  while  such 
a  jaunt  seemed  merely  to  start  Joe's  circula- 
tion. Day  after  day  Fred  and  I  tried  to 
follow  him  step  by  step,  until  we  discovered 
that  each  of  his  strides  was  four  inches  longer 
than  ours.  We  increased  our  revolutions,  but 

101 


OH,  SHOOT! 

always  ran  out  of  gasoline  and  had  to  be 
towed  in. 

It  was  late  in  June  now,  and  the  bears  had  be- 
gun to  rub — that  is,  to  lose  their  winter  coats— 
so  one  morning  we  lashed  our  paraphernalia 
into  the  boat  and  said  good-by  to  our  hosts, 
the  engineers.  Below  us  Childs  Glacier  was 
unusually  active,  because  of  the  rising  waters, 
and  we  could  hear  the  bergs  dropping  at 
frequent  intervals. 

"If  she  breaks  behind  you,  just  run  for  it 
and  try  to  keep  ahead  of  the  wave,"  advised 
the  engineers.  ' '  If  she  breaks  ahead  of  you — ' ' 
There  was  a  difference  of  opinion,  some  holding 
that  it  were  better  to  swing  toward  the  oppo- 
site bank  and  chance  the  surf,  others  claiming 
that  such  a  course  was  madness  and  that  a 
boat,  on  the  contrary,  might  live  if  headed 
directly  into  the  comber,  provided,  of  course, 
that  the  backlash  did  not  suck  it  under  the 
glacier  itself. 

"We'll  walk  down  to  the  lower  bend  and  see 
if  you  come  out,"  they  said,  and,  allowing  them 
an  hour  to  cross  the  moraine,  the  running 
time  by  water  for  that  three  miles  being  ten 
minutes,  we  removed  our  coats,  kicked  off  our 
boots,  and  shoved  out. 

102 


A  CHROMATIC  BEAR  HUNT 

We  sought  the  middle  of  the  river  where  the 
current  was  swiftest,  and  leaned  against  our 
sweeps.  Away  we  shot  directly  towards  that 
towering  face  of  ice  until  the  river  boiled 
against  it;  then  we  swung  at  right  angles 
and  found  the  wall  overhanging  us.  As  we 
neared  the  first  turn  the  glacier  split,  at  which 
our  hair  rose  and  we  disjointed  our  necks,  but 
the  piece  did  not  fall,  and  an  instant  later  we 
were  headed  down  the  three-mile  chute,  wal- 
lowing in  waves  which  drenched  us  and 
wrenched  at  our  oar  blades. 

I  never  knew  until  that  day  that  a  man  can 
hold  his  breath  for  ten  minutes.  Joe  swore  all 
the  way,  talking  to  the  glacier  as  if  it  were  a 
near  relative  on  his  wife's  side. 

"Look  yonder!"  he  said,  suddenly. 

Ahead  of  us  a  two-hundred-foot  slab  seemed 
almost  severed  from  the  mass  behind.  It 
overhung  and  seemed  to  be  tottering. 

"Just  give  us  two  minutes  more,  you 

,"  Joe  shouted,  profanely,  "then  you  can 

fall  and  be ." 

It  gave  us  one  minute — two  minutes — 
thirty  seconds — and  we  were  past,  only  to  find 
ourselves  rushing  towards  other  places  which 
seemed  equally  perilous.  It  was  very  excit- 

103 


OH,  SHOOT! 

ing,  although  I  dare  say  we  greatly  exag- 
gerated the  risk,  and  sufficiently  intense  to  be 
remembered.  I  preserve  no  keener  recollec- 
tion than  the  nickel-plated  memory  of  that 
quarter  hour.  It  was  worth  the  whole  trip. 

We  sailed  around  the  lower  bend,  waved  our 
hats  at  the  men  on  shore,  who  shouted  a  fare- 
well, then  we  scudded  into  the  gorge  below.  In 
five  hours  we  were  back  at  the  railroad  whence 
it  had  taken  us  five  days  to  come.  Then  a 
flat  car  to  town,  a  bath,  a  barber,  and  strange, 
clean  clothes  with  creases  in  them,  and  finally  a 
steamship,  a  cordial  invitation  to  come  back 
the  next  season,  and  a  hasty  farewell. 

Mr.  Heney's  railroad  has  been  completed 
long  ere  this,  and  some  day,  alas!  there 
will  be  a  hotel  on  our  camping  ground,  with 
Swiss  guides,  French  menus,  and  Klondike 
prices ;  but  man  is  powerless  to  desecrate  that 
noble  spectacle.  To  him  who  is  jaded  or 
fagged  I  can  suggest  no  surer  tonic  than  a  pil- 
grimage thither.  However  world-weary  or 
wonder-sated  he  may  be,  I  promise  him  a  new 
thrill,  a  strange  sensation,  a  cleaner  mind  and 
body,  and  an  abiding  wonder  at  the  works  of 
God. 


Ill 

THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

1WAS  in  Panama  and,  feeling  the  need  of  in- 
formation, I  called  on  Wilcox.  Everybody 
in  Colon,  when  in  need  of  anything,  calls  on 
Wilcox,  for  he  has  lived  a  long  time  in  the 
tropics,  his  interests  are  numerous  and  his  ex- 
periences varied.  He  can  sell  you  lumber, 
hardwood,  coco-  and  ivory-nuts,  rubber,  tor- 
toise shell,  "movie"  tickets,  schooners  and 
steamships,  derby  hats,  sealing  wax. 

But  Wilcox  will  give  you  things,  too,  as  I 
had  reason  to  know,  so  I  explained  myself. 

"We  are  taking  wild-life  moving  pictures, 
and  we  have  about  four  miles  of  film,  mainly 
animal,  fish,  and  scenic  stuff.  We  want  some 
s^ood  native  pictures,  and  I'm  wondering  if 
you  can  help  us  get  into  the  San  Bias  country." 

Mr.  Wilcox  thought  a  moment;  then  he 
nodded. 

"  I  know  the  very  man  to  pilot  you.  He's  a 
105 


OH,  SHOOT! 

negro  named  Victor.  He  knows  every  reef 
and  key;  he  has  traded  with  the  Indians  and 
he  speaks  the  language.  I'll  have  him  meet 
you  at  Playa  Damas.  But  pictures — moving 
pictures!"  Wilcox  was  frankly  doubtful. 
"You  may  get  some,  and  you  may  not.  No- 
body has  ever  even  snapped  them  except  by 
stealth.  They're  shy,  you  know." 

I  did  know,  or,  at  least,  I  had  heard.  I  had 
heard  many  things  about  the  San  Bias  tribe, 
even  on  an  earlier  trip  to  Panama,  and  what  I 
had  learned  at  that  time  had  so  interested  me 
that  I  straightway  wrote  a  San  Bias  story — 
and  sold  it.  That  which  had  particularly  in- 
trigued me  was  the  statement  that  no  white 
man  had  ever  slept  on  the  San  Bias  shore, 
that  no  San  Bias  woman  had  ever  been  to 
Colon,  and  that  the  San  Bias  blood  had  never 
been  crossed.  In  reading  the  chronicles  of 
Padre  Somebody-or-other,  I  learned  that  the 
early  Spanish  explorers  had  found  an  amaz- 
ingly industrious  race  of  aborigines  occupying 
the  Darien  coast,  and  had  reported  the  steep 
slopes  of  the  mountains,  which  there  cling 
close  to  the  Caribbean,  to  be  in  a  highly  in- 
tensified state  of  cultivation.  I  encountered, 
also,  an  interesting  account  of  a  shipwrecked 

1 06 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

conquistador  who  had  journeyed  across  the 
Isthmus,  falling  in  by  the  way  with  a  people 
who  had  much  gold.  When  I  learned  that 
these  people  still  existed  in  much  the  same 
state  as  when  those  worthy  senors  passed 
through;  when  I  learned  that  the  San  Bias 
coast,  only  eighty  miles  to  the  east,  was  still  a 
land  unknown,  even  to  the  Panamanians  who 
own  it,  and  a  land  over  which  they  exercise  no 
control ;  when  I  saw  San  Bias  men  with  derby 
hats  and  "middy  blouses"  and  great  golden 
earrings  sail  their  solid-mahogany  cayucas  into 
Colon  harbor;  and  when  that  story  about  the 
San  Bias  women  was  told  to  me — I  simply  had 
to  write.  At  that  time,  I  had  wanted  to  go, 
look,  see,  but  I  could  not.  Now  that  I  was 
back  again,  equipped  with  a  yachtlet  and  a 
motion-picture  outfit,  I  determined  to  verify 
my  local  color.  To  hunt  hostile  Indians  with 
a  camera  promised  entertainment  and  profit — 
hence  this  visit  to  Wilcox. 

"Jimmy  Hyatt  can  fix  it  for  you  to  take  the 
pictures,  if  anybody  can,"  Mr.  Wilcox  con- 
tinued. "He  has  opened  up  a  manganese 
mine  at  this  end  of  the  coast,  and  he  is  going 
down  there  soon.  The  Indians  tried  to  run 
him  out,  but  he  stuck,  and  now  he  is  friendly 
8  107 


OH,  SHOOT! 

with  some  of  them.  You'll  have  a  good  time, 
even  if  you  don't  get  any  pictures." 

"I  hear  they  are  pretty  sour  towards 
strangers,"  I  ventured. 

11  Some  of  them  are,"  Wilcox  agreed.  "  Down 
near  the  Colombian  line  they  have  guns  and 
aren't  very  civilized.  But  they're  nice  peo- 
ple as  a  whole.  I  wish  I  were  able  to  go 
along." 

There  was  a  "rum"  game  running  at  the 
Strangers'  Club,  and  there  I  found  Mr. 
Hyatt.  Hyatt  is  the  sort  of  man  strangers  call 
"Jimmy" — one  of  those  rare,  accommodating 
souls  whose  time  is  devoted  to  doing  favors  for 
people  who  have  no  possible  claim  upon  him, 
and  yet  who  has  time  enough  left  to  attend  to 
his  own  affairs,  and  most  efficiently.  He  was 
delighted  to  inconvenience  himself  to  any 
extent,  and  agreed  to  be  ready  when  Salisbury, 
my  companion  and  copartner  in  this  sensitized- 
celluloid  enterprise,  had  stocked  the  Wisdom 
with  grub  and  ice. 

A  fresh  trade-wind  was  blowing  when  the 
Wisdom  nosed  out  through  the  breakwater 
and  headed  toward  South  America.  While 
she  hogged  her  way  through  the  swell  I  held 
my  deck  chair  in  place  and  tried  to  wring 

108 


from  Hyatt  the  story  of  the  discovery  of  his 
manganese  mine  and  that  attempt  of  the  San 
Bias  men  to  run  him  out,  of  which  Wilcox  had 
spoken.  But  Hyatt,  among  his  other  traits, 
possesses  modesty,  that  bane  of  story  writers. 
He  told  me  little  except  that  he  had  learned 
of  the  deposit  from  rubber  hunters  and,  in 
order  to  examine  and  locate  it,  he  and  his 
partner  had  deemed  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
land  outside  of  San  Bias  territory  and  ap- 
proach it  from  the  rear.  It  was  not  until  I 
met  that  partner  in  New  York,  some  time 
later,  that  I  learned  the  true  facts — how  the 
two  of  them  had  left  their  launch  with  in- 
structions to  pick  them  up  at  a  certain  time 
at  the  mouth  of  a  certain  creek  on  the  Bay  of 
San  Bias,  and  then  had  struck  out  overland, 
cutting  their  way  as  they  went.  They  found 
the  manganese,  but  they  had  less  luck  in  find- 
ing their  launch.  They  waded  out  waist-deep 
through  mud  and  mangroves  to  discover  the 
boat  on  the  horizon,  and  close  at  hand  some 
fifty  San  Bias  cayucas  drawn  up  in  a  semicircle 
before  the  mouth  of  the  creek.  The  occupants 
of  those  cayucas  had  waited  long  and  pa- 
tiently. It  was  twilight,  the  mosquitoes  were 
bad,  and  there  was  a  suggestion  of  alligators 

109 


OH,  SHOOT! 

and  other  undesirable  neighbors  among  the 
mangrove  roots. 

Mr.  Hyatt's  partner  leaned  over  his  ma- 
hogany desk  and  assured  me,  quite  needlessly, 
that  it  was  not  his  idea  of  a  pleasant  situation, 
for  the  reception  committee  was  grim,  hostile, 
and  suspicious.  There  was  an  utter  absence 
of  those  fluent,  flattering  amenities  to  which 
distinguished  visitors  are  accustomed,  and  the 
delegation  seemed  determined  upon  convinc- 
ing these  interlopers,  without  loss  of  time, 
that  the  San  Bias  country  had  a  fatal  climate 
and  was  no  nice  place  for  strangers.  Dia- 
phragm-deep in  the  slime,  Hyatt  and  his  part- 
ner parleyed.  Speech  was  exchanged. 

"They  finally  agreed  to  put  us  aboard  our 
boat,  provided  we  would  go  away  and  never 
come  back,'*  the  latter  told  me.  "I  didn't 
return,  but  Hyatt  did.  He  opened  the  mine, 
and — we're  discharging  another  cargo  of  man- 
ganese in  Jersey  City  this  afternoon.  It's 
fine  stuff,  and  prices  are  high." 

As  I  say,  these  side-lights  on  manganese 
mining  came  to  me  later. 

Towards  sundown,  the  Wisdom  anchored  at 
Playa  Damas,  in  the  roadstead  off  Nombre  de 
Dios,  where  Columbus  first  stepped  foot  on 

no 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

the  mainland  of  the  Western  World,  and  Victor 
came  aboard.  Victor  was  a  lean  black  man 
with  bad  teeth  but  an  agreeable  smile.  That 
night  the  swell  rolled  us  out  of  our  cots — it 
was  too  hot  to  sleep  below — and  the  rain  beat 
under  our  deck  awning. 

We  wallowed  out  into  the  open  again  at  day- 
light, trolling  for  kings  and  mackerel  as  we 
went.  About  noon  we  breasted  Cape  San 
Bias,  swung  through  an  opening  in  a  foaming 
reef,  rounded  a  tiny  key  covered  with  palms, 
and  anchored  off  the  governor's  house. 

Shortly  before  this,  the  Panamanian  govern- 
ment had  begun  an  effort  to  tame  the  San 
Bias  people  and  to  reclaim  their  coast,  and 
to  that  end  it  had  established  this  post.  The 
taming  and  reclaiming  process  had  not  pro- 
gressed noticeably  at  the  time  of  our  visit. 

Governor  Huertado  was  polite  and  friendly, 
being,  I  think,  lonesome  for  a  sight  of  new 
faces.  He  volunteered  to  meet  us  the  next 
day  at  Cardi,  the  largest  village  at  this  end  of 
the  coast,  and  to  act  as  envoy  extraordinary  to 
the  chief,  an  offer  we  gladly  accepted.  His 
doctor  showed  us  some  few  photographs  he 
had  clandestinely  secured  during  official  visits 
to  the  various  towns,  but  discouraged  us  from 

in 


OH,  SHOOT! 

attempting  to  emulate  his  success.  He  de- 
clared there  existed  among  these  benighted 
heathens  a  senseless  prejudice  against  cameras. 
They  regarded  a  lens  as  the  devil's  eye,  and  a 
black  box  as  his  abiding  place.  He  offered  to 
buy  from  us,  at  a  flattering  price,  any  films 
showing  San  Bias  women.  Our  ignorance  and 
our  optimism  amused  him. 

On  our  way  to  Hyatt's  mine  we  gained  some 
idea  of  this  forbidden  country.  We  were  in 
a  magnificent  harbor  dotted  with  small 
islands — the  upper  end  of  the  San  Bias  ar- 
chipelago, which  extends  more  than  a  hun- 
dred miles  to  the  Colombian  line.  Mountains 
stood  back  from  the  sea ;  the  placid  sound  was 
guarded  by  an  inner  and  an  outer  row  of 
reefs  and  keys,  the  latter  crowded  with  coco 
palms,  all  huddled  together  as  if  to  keep  their 
feet  dry.  These  keys  were  like  clean,  or- 
derly, little  picnic  grounds;  they  were  green 
jewels  ringed  with  settings  of  gleaming  white. 
Through  the  glasses  we  could  see  villages  of 
thatched  houses  and  great  numbers  of  what 
looked  like  bits  of  paper  blown  broadcast  by 
the  wind.  They  were  the  sails  of  countless 
cayucas,  heading  homeward. 

Our  course  to  Cardi,  on  the  following  morn- 

112 


THE  SAN  BLAS   PEOPLE 

ing,  led  close  to  several  islands,  massed  to  the 
water's  edge  with  grass  houses.  We  made  no 
attempt  to  land,  for  these  were  Colombian 
Indians  and  unfriendly.  This  was  Panama, 
to  be  sure;  nevertheless,  the  Colombian  colors 
floated  over  these  villages,  and,  as  we  drew 
near,  additional  emblems  of  the  same  sort 
were  unfurled.  Men  ran  out  with  flags  the 
size  of  handkerchiefs,  on  short  staves,  which 
they  thrust  into  the  sand — the  San  Bias 
manner  of  emphasizing  the  fact  that  they 
were  not  at  home  to  callers. 

Cardi,  the  "Place  of  Dead  Bones,"  is  the 
largest  and  best  village  at  the  western  end  of 
the  archipelago.  It  occupies  a  key  perhaps  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  long  and  four  feet  high,  but 
it  is  a  beehive.  Great  palm-thatched  houses, 
many  of  them  sixty  feet  or  more  in  length, 
crowd  one  another  so  closely  to  the  water's 
edge  that  only  here  and  there  is  room  left 
to  draw  up  the  cayucas.  To  walk  around 
it  without  wading  is  impossible.  It  flew  the 
flag  of  Panama,  in  honor  of  Governor  Huer- 
tado's  visit,  as  did  a  twin  village  close  by. 
But  between  these  two  stood  a  third  island, 
and  over  it  the  Colombian  emblem  fluttered 
brazenly. 

"3 


OH,   SHOOT! 

Our  arrival  caused  a  sensation,  for  Salis- 
bury, with  rare  inspiration,  had  opened  the 
flag  lockers  and  decked  the  Wisdom  from  stem 
to  stern  with  the  yachtsman's  panoply.  We 
came  to  anchor  in  an  impressive  silence, 
observed  by  many  pairs  of  black  eyes.  As  we 
were  getting  out  the  small  boats,  several  dug- 
outs, manned  by  naked  boys,  put  off  and  cir- 
cled us  at  a  respectful  distance.  These  canoes 
were  amazing.  Some  were  so  huge  as  to 
dwarf  their  tiny  occupants;  others  seemed  no 
larger  than  gravy  boats  or  pickle  dishes,  and 
in  these  latter  sat  babies. 

Our  camera  man  rushed  to  the  rail,  but  at 
sight  of  the  camera  and  its  terrifying  glass 
eye  the  youngsters  squalled  loudly  and  spat- 
tered shoreward  like  a  brood  of  wild  ducklings. 
Victor,  now  a  man  of  importance,  landed  us 
in  the  dinghy,  for  Governor  Huertado  was 
waiting. 

Cardi  reminded  me  of  pictures  of  Papuan 
villages.  Huge  steep  -  roofed  houses  were 
crushed  side  by  side;  in  an  open  landing  place 
the  inhabitants  had  gathered,  and  they  eyed 
us  curiously,  coldly,  as  we  approached.  The 
men  were  short,  broad-shouldered,  capable; 
the  women  were  of  pygmy  size,  and  every  other 

114 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

one  bore  a  baby  on  her  hip.  They  wore  gold 
nose  rings  and  brilliantly  colored  dresses, 
these  women,  and  they  were  strangely  shy, 
inordinately  bashful.  When  one  looked 
squarely  at  them  they  disappeared,  melted 
away,  only  to  reappear  when  one's  glance  had 
traveled  on.  But  that  which  challenged  at- 
tention was  the  boys.  There  were  scores  of 
them — splendid,  straight-limbed,  manly  little 
fellows.  They  were  half  demented  with  ex- 
citement; nevertheless,  they  were  decorous. 
Every  mother's  son  of  them  was  stark  naked. 
We  bent  double  to  enter  a  door  in  the 
nearest  wall  and  followed  Victor  towards  the 
chief's  house.  Through  a  vast,  gloomy  in- 
terior with  low  log  beams,  from  which  de- 
pended parallel  rows  of  hammocks,  we  made 
our  way,  then  out  into  a  street  so  narrow  that 
we  large-framed  visitors  had  to  walk  in  single 
file,  stooping  to  avoid  the  sharp  ends  of 
bamboo  rafters.  The  men  and  the  boys 
went  with  us.  There  was  a  great  scuffling  of 
naked  feet,  but  no  other  sound.  From  every 
crevice  between  the  upright  poles  which 
formed  the  house  walls  the  bright  black  eyes 
of  women  peered.  From  behind  closed  doors, 
usually  a  single  plank  hewn  from  a  mahogany 

"5 


OH,  SHOOT! 

or  cocobolo  log,  came  whispers,  a  smothered 
agitation,  the  occasional  wail  of  a  frightened 
baby.  Hyatt  cautioned  us : 

"Mind,  now — don't  laugh  at  the  chief. 
He's  very  dignified,  and  you  mustn't  josh 
him." 

For  my  part,  I  had  no  desire  to  laugh.  I 
was  too  intensely  interested,  nor  was  the  chief 
the  sort  of  man  I  would  select  to  banter.  He 
was  a  rugged,  strong-faced  man,  with  a  brown 
derby  hat  which  he  wore  like  a  crown.  He 
was  seated  on  a  long  bench  in  the  center  of  his 
great  house.  On  his  left  was  a  straw-haired, 
pink-eyed,  blue-gummed  albino;  on  his  right, 
a  villainous  individual  with  a  muzzle-loading 
shotgun.  He  shook  hands  without  rising,  and 
by  the  time  Victor  had  made  the  introduc- 
tions the  big  room  was  jammed  with  Indians. 

The  chief  listened  politely  enough  to  Vic- 
tor's translations  of  our  greetings,  but  he 
maintained  a  strict  neutrality.  He  neither 
frowned  nor  smiled;  he  refused  to  commit 
himself.  The  court  chamberlain  thoughtfully 
caressed  his  antiquated  firearm.  I  squeezed 
myself  into  a  seat  beside  the  albino  and  studied 
him  with  fascination  while  he  stared  fixedly 
down  his  nose. 

116 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

On  a  beam  in  front  of  us  were  several  litho- 
graphs— one  of  the  Crucifixion,  another  of  the 
late  King  Edward  VII,  a  third  showing  an 
African  explorer  and  his  naked  gun  bearers 
in  a  desperate  battle  with  some  faded-blue 
crocodiles  which  had  gnawed  one  end  of 
his  canoe  to  the  bone.  They  were  products 
of  the  Paris-green  pre-half-tone,  nature-faking 
school  of  expression. 

Having  paid  fulsome  respects  to  the  chief, 
we  explained  that  we  desired  nothing  from 
him  or  his  people,  that  we  had  nothing  to  sell 
or  to  buy,  that  we  wanted  neither  lands  nor 
coconuts,  and  that  we  were  all  happily  mar- 
ried. When  he  had  digested  this  amazing 
intelligence,  the  chief  spoke.  From  his  tone, 
from  the  light  in  his  eyes,  I  am  sure  that  a 
literal  translation  of  his  words  was: 

"Well,  what  do  they  want?" 

This  was  Salisbury's  moment,  and  he  rose 
to  it.  He  gestured  magnificently;  his  smile 
was  warm  and  friendly,  and  it  embraced  every 
hostile  countenance. 

"Tell  the  chief  that  we  are  different  from 
any  white  men  he  has  ever  seen.  We're  not 
looking  for  mines;  we  don't  want  any  lands, 
for  we  have  both.  We  are  immensely  wealthy. 

117 


OH,  SHOOT! 

We  are  so  rich  it  annoys  us,  and  we  travel  for 
pleasure.  We  do  nothing  but  visit  interesting 
people.  We  have  seen  all  the  Indians  in  the 
world  except  the  San  Bias,  and  now  we  have 
come  to  make  friends  with  them." 

Victor  perspired  some  in  putting  this  over. 
Hyatt  and  the  governor  nodded ;  I  arched  my 
chest  and  undertook  to  look  rich.  Salisbury 
continued: 

"We  have  heard  that  the  San  Bias  are 
honest  people,  that  their  men  are  strong,  their 
women  beautiful,  and  their  children  good. 
We  have  heard  that  they  make  the  finest 
canoes  in  the  world  and  know  how  to  sail 
them,  but  we  want  to  see.  We  like  to  hunt 
and  fish,  and  we  will  give  all  that  we  kill  or 
catch  to  the  chief.  Now  then,  we  don't  want 
anything  for  nothing ;  if  the  San  Bias  Indians 
will  be  good  to  us,  we  will  agree  to  take  come 
nice  pictures  of  them  and  show  the  world  what 
superior  people  they  really  are." 

Victor  managed  this  at  the  cost  of  many 
strange  and  asthmatic  sounds. 

"We  make  many  presents."  Salisbury 
beamed  benignantly;  a  careless  prodigality 
was  in  his  gesture.  "We  distribute  vast  sums 
of  money  wherever  we  go.  For  instance,  we 

118 


m 
S 

>  f 

PS    > 

O  » 
ffi   Q 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

will  get  up  a  cayuca  race,  and  to  the  man 
with  the  swiftest  canoe  we  will  give"-— he 
paused  dramatically — "a  beautiful  gold 
watch.  Or,  if  he  doesn't  want  a  watch,  we 
will  give  him  its  full  value  in  money — four 
dollars,  silver.  To  the  second  man  we  will  give 
two  dollars,  and  to  the  third  man  one  dollar." 

Inasmuch  as  Panamanian  money — silver — 
is  worth  only  fifty  cents  on  the  dollar,  this  was 
a  handsome  offer  indeed.  When  this  enticing 
proposal  had  been  fully  translated,  the  chief 
smiled. 

"Well  do  more."  Salisbury  was  growing 
reckless.  "We'll  give  prizes  to  the  fastest 
swimmer  among  the  men,  among  the  boys, 
among  the  women.  We'll  have  games  and 
dances  and  make  a  present  to  the  handsomest 
girl.  We'll  send  her  a  copy  of  her  photograph ! 
Oh,  we'll  have  the  best  time  the  San  Bias 
people  ever  had,  and  they'll  be  sorry  when  we 
leave!" 

They  fell  for  it.  Discussion  became  lively. 
There  was  less  hostility  in  their  glances ;  little 
girls  with  enormous  necklaces  of  silver  coins 
began  to  sidle  into  view.  But  it  was  slow 
work  getting  acquainted.  Through  every 
crevice  in  the  walls  bright  eyes  continued  to 

119 


OH,  SHOOT! 

watch  us,  and  we  could  see  that  the  place  was 
surrounded  by  women.  After  a  time,  their 
curiosity  proved  too  much  for  them  and  they 
likewise  edged  in  through  the  doors.  Some 
of  them — bold,  brazen  characters,  no  doubt — 
had  the  courage  to  stand  close  behind  us. 
Fingers  touched  us;  tiny  brown  hands  ex- 
plored our  garments.  By  and  by  we  began 
to  distribute  change  among  the  children  and 
to  play  with  the  babies.  Thenceforth  we  got 
along  splendidly. 

It  was  after  the  chief  and  some  of  his  head 
men  had  accepted  our  invitation  to  lunch  with 
us  that  an  incident  occurred  which  briefly 
threatened  not  only  to  interrupt  our  relations 
and  destroy  what  understanding  we  had  es- 
tablished, but  also  to  involve  us  in  a  decidedly 
awkward  situation.  We  were  on  our  way  out 
to  the  yacht  when  we  heard  a  gunshot. 

"Who  fired  that  gun?"  Hyatt  inquired, 
quickly.  We  could  not  imagine. 

As  we  neared  the  Wisdom  we  saw  signs  of 
something  untoward,  for  canoes  were  scuttling 
shoreward  and  our  crew  was  rushing  about  the 
deck.  Next  we  discerned  the  body  of  a  man 
laid  out  upon  one  of  the  cots;  a  bare  brown 
calf  and  arm  hung  over  the  side. 

I2O 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

Hyatt  cursed  eloquently. 

"  Somebody  has  shot  an  Indian,"  he  declared. 
"That  means  we're  in  a  mighty  bad  fix." 

But  it  was  not  an  Indian.  One  of  our 
sailors,  in  cleaning  an  automatic  pistol,  had 
sent  a  steel- jacketed  "forty-five"  through 
his  knee.  It  was  a  bad  wound;  we  were  a 
hundred  miles  from  a  hospital,  so  away  went 
our  fine  plans,  temporarily,  at  least,  and  we 
hoisted  anchor  and  pushed  the  Wisdom  at  top 
speed  out  to  the  governor's  residence. 

The  doctor,  after  an  examination,  declared 
positively  that  our  man  must  have  the  best 
surgical  attention,  so  Hyatt,  the  operator,  and 
I  took  the  cameras  ashore,  and  Salisbury, 
blaspheming  sulphurously,  turned  the  Wisdom 
seaward  and  bore  the  sufferer  away. 

Knowing  that  the  Indians  were  as  timid  as 
deer,  it  was  with  some  apprehensions  that  I 
returned  to  Cardi  on  the  following  morning  to 
advise  the  villagers  that  our  regatta  was  only 
postponed  and  to  assure  them  that  we  would 
permit  no  further  carelessness  in  the  use  of 
firearms  while  we  were  their  guests.  They 
responded  more  readily  than  I  had  dared 
hope,  and  when  the  Wisdom  hove  in  sight,  two 
days  later,  we  were  again  persona  grates. 

121 


OH,  SHOOT! 

There  followed  an  absorbing  two  weeks, 
during  which  we  accomplished  much  that  we 
had  come  for.  We  held  those  contests,  and 
no  Poughkeepsie  excursion  steamer  was  ever 
more  thickly  crowded  at  an  intercollegiate 
rowing  race  than  was  the  Wisdom.  Indians 
swarmed  over  her  until  she  threatened  to  cap- 
size; they  rushed  from  rail  to  rail,  to  the 
despair  of  the  camera  man,  who  was  busily 
grinding  away.  We  spent  much  time  ashore, 
surrounded  by  troops  of  adoring  boys,  who 
clung  to  us  and  followed  us  everywhere.  It 
was  not  so  easy  to  gain  the  women's  confidence 
and  to  take  their  pictures;  we  were  put  to 
many  stratagems  and  cultivated  consider- 
able teamwork  in  doing  so,  but  we  succeeded. 
Evenings,  the  men  came  off  to  visit  us,  and 
rows  of  naked  boys  perched  along  the  rails 
like  blackbirds.  We  told  them  about  other 
Indians  in  other  lands,  about  tribes  who  lived 
far  from  the  ocean  and  rode  horses,  like  the 
white  men;  about  others  who  dwelt  in  the 
far  north,  where  it  was  never  warm  and  where 
the  sea  grew  solid  with  the  cold,  so  that  men 
could  stand  upon  it,  where  dogs  were  driven 
to  sleds,  where  houses  were  built  of  snow  and 
people  walked  with  big  nets  on  their  feet.  I 

122 


A  FRESH  WIND  WAS  BLOWING  WHEN  THE  WISDOM  FOSED  OUT  THTJOUGH 
THE  BREAKWATER  AND   HEADED   TOWARD   SOUTH  AMERICA 


SEVERAL  DUGOUTS,  MANNED   BY  NAKED   BOYS,  CIRCLED   US  AT  A   RESPECT- 
FUL  DISTANCE 


THE    START    OF   THE    RACE 

No  Poughkeepsie  excursion  steamer  was  ever  more  thickly  crowded  at  an  intercollegiate 
rowing  race  than  was  the  Wisdom 


A  SAN  BLAS  CANOE 

The  oddest  and  the  best  sailing  canoe  in  the  world 


THE  SAN  BLAS   PEOPLE 

doubt  if  they  believed  us.  In  turn,  they  told 
us  much  about  themselves,  their  lives,  and 
their  customs;  about  other  San  Bias  villages, 
away  back  in  the  hills,  where  the  people 
hunted  with  blow  pipes  and  poisoned  darts 
and  where  no  white  men  had  ever  been; 
about  the  origin  of  the  San  Bias  cayuca,  the 
oddest  and,  I  believe,  the  best  sailing  canoe  in 
the  world. 

Our  phonograph  was  a  never-ending  joy 
and  mystery,  especially  to  the  boys,  who  by 
this  time  had  adopted  us  and  made  them- 
selves masters  of  the  ship.  They  peered  into 
its  vitals  and  imitated  its  sounds.  Then  they 
fetched  reed  pipes  and  made  music  for  us. 
These  pipes  were  in  sets  of  seven  and,  in  using 
them,  two  players  faced  each  other.  The 
tunes  were  primitive,  pastoral,  barbaric,  as 
were  the  dances  that  went  with  them. 

The  San  Bias  are  suffragists.  The  woman's 
position  in  the  household,  her  voice  in  affairs, 
are  reminiscent  of  that  female  dominance 
which,  we  are  assured  by  history  sharks, 
existed  anciently.  They  are  an  industrious 
people,  too.  Every  morning,  long  before  day- 
light, the  rising-call  runs  from  house  to  house, 
fires  flicker,  and  then,  in  the  first  gray  dawn, 

9  123 


OH,  SHOOT! 

come  rain,  come  shine,  one  sees  ghostly  fleets 
of  cayucas  blown,  like  moths  ahead  of  a  gale, 
towards  the  mainland  or  the  reefs  and  keys 
outside.  The  San  Bias  coconuts  are  very 
fine,  and  the  Indians  are  rich  in  trees.  The 
islands  are  covered  with  them,  and  other 
groves  line  the  rivers.  There  appear  to  be 
no  exact  land  boundaries,  and  frequently  a 
man  will  own  a  single  tree  here,  another  there 
— in  which  event  he  respects  his  neighbor's  title 
and  gathers  only  the  fruit  that  belongs  to  him. 
While  the  man  works  with  his  crops,  the 
woman  does  her  laundry.  Every  day  is  Mon- 
day, for  they  are  a  cleanly  people,  and  every 
garment  must  be  washed  at  least  once  a  day. 
Soap  grows  wild  on  trees,  in  the  form  of 
globular  berries,  and  they  use  vast  quantities 
of  it.  In  no  village  did  I  discover  any  filth; 
in  no  house  did  I  encounter  unpleasant  odors. 
They  have,  in  fact,  a  tribal  custom,  of  the 
highest  sanitary  value  to  a  crowded  tropical 
people,  which  absolutely  forbids  the  careless 
practices  common  to  primitive  races,  and  which 
makes  the  ocean  the  immediate  receptacle  of 
all  refuse  of  whatever  character.  As  a  result, 
they  do  not  suffer  from  dysentery,  hookworm, 
and  similar  diseases. 

124 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

The  women  love  bright  colors ;  their  waists, 
or  blouses,  are  quite  wonderful  examples  of 
needlework,  and  carry  striking  patterns  made 
by  sewing  many  layers  of  cloth  one  over  the 
other.  About  the  hips  is  wrapped  a  narrow 
length  of  coarse  cloth,  frequently  painted, 
which  reaches  barely  to  the  knees.  This  is 
the  work  dress.  Their  calves  are  tightly 
wrapped  with  beads  and,  in  consequence,  they 
are  misshapen,  but  rarely  does  a  stranger 
catch  more  than  a  glimpse  of  these  ornaments, 
for  an  outer  skirt,  consisting  of  a  wider  strip 
of  brilliant  calico,  is  usually  worn.  Owing  to 
their  diminutive  size,  it  is  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish the  women  from  the  girls  except  by 
their  hair,  and  here  must  be  mentioned  a 
custom  peculiar,  so  far  as  I  know,  to  the 
San  Bias. 

We  had  heard  of  the  hair-cutting  ceremonies 
and  of  the  big  drunks  that  accompany  them; 
we  had  been  warned  to  avoid  the  villages 
where  a  so-called  chiclia  was  in  progress,  lest 
we  have  cause  to  take  suddenly  to  our  boats, 
leaving  our  hats  behind  us.  In  fact,  when  we 
arrived  at  Cardi,  the  chief  informed  us,  with 
the  melancholy  languor  peculiar  to  a  "hold- 
over," that  he  was  but  just  recovered  from  a 

125 


OH,  SHOOT! 

three-day  celebration  during  which  many 
demijohns  of  chicha — rum — had  been  drunk, 
and  in  one  house  we  came  across  a  pen  of 
banana  leaves,  around  which  were  gathered 
several  old  crones,  who  warned  us  away  and 
led  us  to  understand  that  we  were  profaning 
some  holy  of  holies. 

Explanations  came  in  time.  When  a  girl 
arrives  at  marriageable  age,  her  hair  is  cut  for 
the  first  time,  to  the  accompaniment  of  certain 
rites  and  formalities,  and  she  is  secluded  for 
eight  days  in  one  of  these  pens.  None  but 
the  elder  women  are  allowed  to  see  her,  and 
during  the  first  three  days  of  her  sequestra- 
tion they  carry  calabashes  of  sea  water,  which, 
at  intervals,  they  pour  over  her.  The  child 
is  kept  constantly  drenched,  and,  meanwhile, 
the  father,  having  purchased  as  much  chicha 
as  he  can  afford,  joins  in  a  general  carousal. 
Visitors  come  from  other  islands  and  stay  as 
long  as  the  liquor  lasts.  There  seems  to  be 
little  drunkenness  at  other  times.  As  may 
be  imagined,  a  chicha  is  a  thing  to  be  avoided 
by  strangers.  Traders  up  anchor  and  sail 
away,  for  drunken  Indians  are  not  a  bit  more 
pleasant  than  drunken  white  men. 

After  her  three  days'  baptism,  the  budding 
126 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

San  Bias  woman  remains  isolated  for  five  days 
more.  A  year  later  she  is  considered  ready 
for  marriage,  and  thenceforth  her  hair  is  kept 
cropped. 

It  was  Billy  Smith,  a  man  who  had  sailed 
the  seas  in  big  ships  and  returned  to  finish  his 
days  with  his  own  people,  who  explained  to 
me  the  reason  for  this  and  for  other  customs. 
We  were  out  in  the  chief's  "thousand  coconut " 
cayuca,  scudding  ahead  of  half  a  gale  of  wind. 
The  chief's  son  was  straining  at  the  great  ma- 
hogany steering  paddle,  while  Billy  clung  to  a 
rope  from  the  top  of  the  mast,  swinging  him- 
self far  overside  when  the  canoe  heeled.  He 
talked  as  we  flew  through  the  white  water. 

"It  is  hard  for  the  girl  to  be  cold  and  wet," 
he  told  me,  in  his  halting  English;  "but  it 
must  be,  for  we  live  in  the  sea,  like  savalo,  and 
every  day,  as  long  as  she  lives,  that  woman 
will  be  in  the  water  at  some  time  or  other." 

"What  is  your  marriage  ceremony?"  I 
inquired. 

"Well,  when  my  daughter  is  ready  to 
marry,  my  wife  and  I  will  pick  out  a  young 
man  who  works  hard.  We  will  ask  his  papa 
and  mamma  if  they  like  us  and  our  daughter. 
If  they  say,  'Yes,'  we  will  ask  the  boy." 

127 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"Suppose  he  doesn't  love  your  girl?"  I 
queried.  Billy  was  puzzled,  so  I  amended 
my  question.  "Suppose  he  doesn't  want  to 
get  married?" 

"Oh!  He  will  say  so,  and  we  will  ask  some- 
body else.  If  he  don't  mind,  bimeby  he  will 
visit  us.  When  night  comes  and  the  girl  goes 
in  her  hammock,  we  will  take  the  man  and  put 
him  in  the  hammock,  too.  Sometimes  the  man 
gets  up  and  runs  away." 

"What  then?" 

Billy  shrugged. 

"That  means  he  ain't  ready  to  be  married. 
If  he  doesn't  run  away  he  will  go  ashore  in 
the  morning  and  bring  wood  for  the  fire.  The 
girl  will  cook  his  breakfast  and — they  are 
married." 

"Do  you  have  divorce?" 

"  Oh  yes.  Sometimes  a  man  or  a  woman  is 
lazy.  Then  they  go  apart,  and  the  man  must 
move  to  another  island,  and  they  can't  marry 
again  for  five  years." 

Marriage  does  not  separate  the  San  Bias 
woman  from  her  parents,  for  the  husband 
comes  to  live  with  her.  In  consequence,  a 
family  of  twenty  members,  all  living  in  a  great, 
single-roomed  house,  is  not  uncommon.  While 

128 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

the  privacy  may  not  be  all  that  a  blushing 
bride  craves,  the  custom  at  least  does  away 
with  the  hoary-whiskered,  Anglo-Saxon, 
mother-in-law  joke,  and  therefore  has  its 
points. 

How  or  when  the  derby  hat  was  introduced 
to  this  coast  I  don't  know,  but  rumor  has  it 
that  Wilcox  is  responsible.  These  hats  are 
all  alike.  They  are  worn  on  state  occasions, 
and  since  they  are  all  of  one  size,  regardless  of 
the  size  of  the  heads  beneath,  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  Wilcox  is  indeed  to  blame.  He 
is  a  grave  man,  but  he  has  a  sense  of  humor. 

According  to  another  story,  he  once  had  a 
stick  of  red  sealing  wax  in  the  cabin  of  his 
schooner,  and  when  a  brave  came  to  him  with 
a  stomach  ache  he  pulverized  it — the  sealing 
wax — and  administered  it  in  a  cup  of  water. 
The  color  was  gorgeous  and  the  cure  immedi- 
ate. More  demands  for  the  wonderful  red 
medicine  resulted,  and  before  long  Wilcox 
was  doing  a  thriving  business  in  sealing  wax. 
He  ordered  large  quantities  of  it,  for  the  profit 
was  good.  His  fame  spread.  Then  one  day, 
being  short  of  red,  he  unwittingly  adminis- 
tered some  green,  never  thinking  that  the 
color  arose  from  Paris  green  or  some  such  dele- 

129 


OH,  SHOOT! 

terious  drug.  The  effect,  this  time,  was  more 
than  imaginary.  None  of  the  Indians  actually 
died,  but  Wilcox  tells  me  he  has  not  been  back 
to  the  San  Bias  coast  for  over  ten  years. 

Having,  as  we  thought,  sufficiently  estab- 
lished our  innocence  of  purpose,  we  broached 
the  subject  of  a  hunting  trip  to  the  mainland, 
but  our  proposal  met  with  opposition.  Cer- 
tain of  the  Colombian  Indians  objected,  on 
the  ground  that  we  were  doubtless  looking  for 
land,  and  it  was  not  without  much  opposition 
that  we  were  finally  permitted  to  enter  the 
forbidden  territory  back  of  the  coast. 

To  avoid  the  appearance  of  overrunning 
the  neighborhood,  Salisbury  consented  to 
spend  the  first  day  trolling  in  the  river,  while 
Billy  Smith  guided  me  through  the  jungle  in 
quest  of  "mountain  cow" — tapir.  We  were 
off  at  daylight,  in  the  chief's  cayuca,  and  al- 
though I  covered  many  hot  and  breathless 
miles  behind  my  guide,  I  returned  tapirless. 
There  is  game  in  the  country,  lots  of  it.  We 
were  constantly  on  fresh  signs  of  jaguar,  deer, 
wild  hog,  and  tapir;  in  places,  the  gloomy 
depths  beneath  the  dense  roof  of  leaves  was 
trampled  and  tracked  like  a  barnyard. 

Other  trips  followed,  and  on  one  of  these, 
130 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

after  much  urging,  we  were  shown  the  City  of 
the  Dead,  the  graveyard  where  lie  the  former 
residents  of  Cardi.  It  stands  on  the  river 
bank  far  inland,  a  silent  village  of  great 
thatched  roofs.  The  floors  sound  hollow  to 
the  tread,  for  the  dead  are  swung  in  ham- 
mocks, each  in  his  empty  vault,  and  the 
graves  are  set  side  by  side. 

Billy  assured  us  that  we  were  the  first  white 
men  to  see  this  sanctuary.  He  made  it  plain, 
too,  that  he  wished  us  to  look  and  then  to  go, 
and  the  reason  finally  came  out. 

"  A  bad  thing  happened  here  two  days  ago," 
said  he.  "  We  saw  the  devil. ' ' 

"The  devil?" 

"Yes."  Billy  pointed  out  the  exact  spot 
where  the  unwelcome  visitor  had  made  him- 
self visible.  "He  was  a  little  fellow  with  a 
white  shirt.  We  thought  he  was  one  of  the 
boys  from  Cardi,  but  there  was  no  cayuca  on 
the  bank,  and  when  he  saw  us  he  ran  quick 
into  the  woods.  Plenty  of  people  have  seen 
the  devil  here." 

Naturally,  I  was  interested.  I  assured 
Billy  that,  failing  a  tapir,  I  would  be  con- 
tent with  a  devil.  I  told  him  I  was  a  fa- 
mous devil  catcher  and  would  guarantee  to 


OH,  SHOOT! 

capture  this  one  if  he  appeared,  but  my  words 
evoked  a  smile.  It  was  evident  that  Billy 
considered  me  a  braggart  and  a  fool.  He 
and  the  chief's  son  were  vastly  relieved  when 
they  had  paddled  us  out  of  sight  of  the  place. 

We  fished  the  Cardi  River  and  we  hunted  it; 
we  followed  withered  old  hunters  armed  with 
rusty  shotguns  into  wildernesses  and  swamps 
whence  none  but  an  Indian  with  an  Indian's 
bump  of  location  could  have  guided  us  out; 
we  perspired  ourselves  white  in  the  humid, 
ovenlike  heat,  and  we  emerged  covered  with 
ticks  as  with  a  scale,  for  this  was  the  dry 
season.  Nothing  was  proof  against  this  in- 
sect pest;  every  twig  and  every  leaf  contrib- 
uted its  quota  to  our  persons — the  ticks  got 
into  our  hair  and  our  eyebrows;  we  spent 
hours  "reading"  our  garments  and  each 
other's  backs. 

They  are  wonderful  travelers,  these  little 
men.  We  had  great  times  with  them,  for, 
once  they  came  to  trust  us,  we  put  full  trust 
in  them,  and  they  took  us  everywhere.  It 
was  great  fun,  too,  still-hunting  the  largest 
and  the  wariest  of  tropical  animals,  matching 
wits  with  wild  creatures  whose  every  sense  is 
sharpened  to  incredible  acuteness. 

132 


THE  SAN  BLAS   PEOPLE 

They  were  much  interested  in  my  electric 
headlight,  and  they  took  me  fire  hunting. 
To  one  who  has  never  hunted  a  jungle  stream 
at  night  the  experience  is  worth  while.  To 
one  who  has  there  is  a  never-ending  fascina- 
tion about  it.  The  thickets  conceal  glowing 
eyes  and  the  woods  are  full  of  strange  noises — 
rustling  bodies,  soft  footsteps,  the  whir  of 
wings,  and  the  calls  of  wild  creatures  which 
speak  only  at  night.  It  is  unsportsmanlike, 
no  doubt,  but  in  a  land  of  such  dense  cover 
there  is  sometimes  no  other  way  in  which  to 
get  fresh  meat. 

We  supplied  the  village  with  fish,  too,  for 
the  streams  were  choked  with  giant  snappers, 
jacks,  jewfish,  tarpon,  and  the  like.  Our 
rods  and  reels,  our  slender  lines  and  glittering 
spoons,  amused  the  Indians  at  first,  but  when 
we  came  home  with  the  launches  heavy  with 
fish  and  our  backs  aching  from  many  a  hard 
pull,  they  accorded  us  deep  respect. 

It  had  been  so  easy  to  establish  ourselves 
with  the  inhabitants  of  Cardi  that  we  put  little 
faith  in  the  stories  of  San  Bias  hostility,  but 
we  proved  them  true  when  we  journeyed 
farther  down  the  coast. 

At  River  Diabolo,  perhaps  the  largest  and 
133 


OH,  SHOOT! 

the  most  civilized  of  the  towns,  we  found  two 
missionary  women,  the  only  white  people 
living  in  the  nation.  They  had  come  at  the 
invitation  of  the  local  chief,  but  their  presence 
had  excited  much  opposition  and  they  had 
undergone  many  adventures.  The  one  who 
had  dwelt  there  longest  told  us  of  uprisings 
against  her  and  of  council  meetings  where  her 
death  or  expulsion  had  been  demanded.  With 
that  amazing  singleness  of  purpose  which 
animates  the  missionary  mind,  this  little 
woman  had  stuck  to  her  post,  devoting  one- 
third  of  her  hours  to  teaching  and  two-thirds 
to  preaching.  Her  scholars  were  eager  to 
learn ;  they  followed  her  about,  crying :  "School ! 
School!  School!"  and  allowed  her  scant 
leisure  for  her  household  duties.  Women  with 
babies  on  their  hips  sat  beside  immature  chil- 
dren, droning  their  a-b-c's  and  singing  psalms. 
With  the  arrival  of  the  other  missionary,  the 
word  of  God  had  spread  more  rapidly,  and 
when  we  sailed  into  River  Diabolo  with  our 
flags  flying  we  were  met  by  ranks  of  Indian 
boys  in  clean  white  shirts  and  trousers,  with 
faces  scrubbed  until  they  shone,  and  with 
hair  plastered  flat  upon  their  foreheads.  But 
garments  were  worn  only  during  school 


WE   SPENT   MUCH   TIME   ASHORE    AND   EASILY  ESTABLISHED   FRIENDLY 
RELATIONS   WITH    THE    INHABITANTS 


A    PRIMITIVE    SAN    BLAS   CANE   MILL 


OWING  TO  THEIR  DIMINUTIVE  SIZE,  IT  IS  DIFFICULT  TO  DISTINGUISH  THE 
WOMEN    FROM   THE    GIRLS    EXCEPT    BY   THEIR   HAIR 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

hours — when  out  from  under  the  eye  of  the 
missionaries  they  took  their  comfort. 

River  Diabolo  is  the  seat  of  culture,  the 
home  of  refinement ;  its  citizens  boasted  loudly 
of  its  civilization,  then  sailed  away  to  a  chicha 
five  miles  below,  where  a  shivering  girl  sat  for 
three  days  on  a  hard-wood  stool  while  the 
women  poured  sea  water  over  her. 

There  is  little  violence  and  a  strict  regard 
for  the  law  among  these  people,  but  a  few  days 
before  we  arrived  at  this  town  a  man,  crazed 
by  the  rum  he  had  drunk  at  a  hair  cutting, 
had  stabbed  another.  His  fellow  townsmen 
had  seized  and  imprisoned  him;  then,  when 
his  victim  had  recovered  sufficiently,  he  was 
given  a  knife  and  compelled  to  stab  his  assail- 
ant. This  eye-for-an-eye  practice  holds  gen- 
erally, we  were  told. 

"Suppose  one  man  kills  another?"  I 
inquired. 

My  informant  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"We  take  him  up  the  river."  He  waved 
towards  the  solid  green  of  the  forest. 

"And  then?" 

"We  give  him  poison,"  said  he.  "It  is  a 
good  law." 

We  were  not  welcomed  everywhere.  For 
135 


OH,  SHOOT! 

instance,  at  Tigre,  a  little  island  hidden  se- 
curely behind  a  maze  of  reefs,  the  inhabitants 
took  to  the  woods  at  the  rattle  of  our  anchor 
chains,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  we  could 
entice  them  back.  Even  then  they  would 
have  little  to  do  with  us  and  much  less  with 
our  cameras.  The  Wisdom  was  the  first  ship 
of  size  that  had  ever  stopped  at  Tigre,  and 
it  was  naturally  a  terrifying  experience  to 
them. 

After  we  had  taken  some  three  thousand 
feet  of  film,  we  discovered  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  the  Wisdom's  stern  bearing, 
which  made  a  sound  like  that  of  a  boy  exer- 
cising his  stilts  on  a  tin  roof,  and  having  in 
mind  a  certain  river  on  the  Pacific  side  where 
the  crocodiles  are  incredibly  thick  and  very 
sizable,  we  turned  homeward,  stopping  once 
more  at  Cardi  for  a  final  palaver  with  the  chief 
and  for  some  pictures  of  a  tarpon  drive.  The 
tarpon  were  not  running,  however,  so  we 
missed  filming  a  fleet  of  cayucas  in  a  churning 
corral  full  of  giant,  leaping  fish.  The  men 
strike  them  with  harpoons,  and  the  sight  is 
worth  seeing;  it  was  one  we  had  counted  on, 
but  some  vagary  had  seized  the  savalo,  and 
none  was  to  be  found. 

136 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

A  great  trouble  had  come  upon  the  San 
Bias  people,  so  the  chief  informed  us.  From 
Colon  had  come  rumors  which  made  them 
fear  the  government  was  about  to  deprive 
them  of  their  land,  the  land  which  their 
fathers  and  their  fathers'  fathers  had  culti- 
vated from  that  day  when  the  three  wise  men 
met  the  stranger  who  told  them  how  to  build 
a  canoe  that  would  sail  against  the  wind. 
They  were  a  peaceful  people ;  all  they  wanted 
was  to  be  left  alone.  Surely  the  world  was 
big  enough  to  hold  the  white  man;  surely 
there  were  other  lands  than  these.  He  was 
sorely  distressed,  was  the  chief,  seeing  much 
trouble  ahead  if  intruders  came.  Some  of 
the  other  chiefs  had  gone  to  interview  the 
President,  in  Panama  City,  but  had  returned 
to  say  that  the  President  could  not,  or  would 
not,  help  them.  The  chief  of  Cardi  wished 
our  advice,  and  we  gave  it  to  him.  We  told 
him  that  the  white  man  has  a  way  of  over- 
running the  earth,  but  that  he  has  laws  as 
strict  and  stricter  than  the  San  Bias  laws,  and 
that  these  laws  would  protect  the  Indian  as 
well  as  the  white  man  if  he  took  advantage 
of  them. 

"Get  a  paper  from  the  government,"  we 
137 


OH,  SHOOT! 

counseled.  "Get  a  paper  which  will  give  you 
title  to  your  lands  and  to  the  plantations  you 
have  made;  then  let  the  white  men  come  if 
they  want  to — you  have  no  use  for  the  jungle 
and  the  mountains  yonder.  It  is  no  good  to 
fight,  for  the  white  man  will  come — -he  always 
does,  wherever  the  soil  is  rich  and  the  trees  are 
heavy  with  fruit  and  the  waters  are  full  of 
fish.  It  is  his  way." 

We  promised  to  help  the  San  Bias  people 
get  title  to  their  lands,  and  we  did  what 
little  we  could,  for  they  are  good  people, 
clean,  healthy,  moral,  and  God-fearing,  and 
they  had  treated  us  well.  They  are  the  best 
Indians  I  have  ever  seen,  and  they  would 
make  good  citizens  of  any  country.  How 
many  there  are  I  could  not  learn;  some  said 
ten  thousand,  some  said  twenty  thousand — 
certainly  there  are  enough  of  them  to  warrant 
consideration. 

All  the  San  Bias  people  want  are  the  coconut 
trees  and  the  lands  upon  which  their  crops 
grow — not  much,  to  be  sure.  But  coconut 
groves  are  of  slow  growth ;  those  bottom  lands 
are  rich,  and  I  have  disquieting  visions  of  ag- 
gressive, conscienceless  exploiters,  of  a  reser- 
vation, and  of  sick  Indians. 

138 


THE  CROCODILES  ARE  INCREDIBLY  THICK  AND  VERY   SIZABLE 


WE   SUPPLIED   THE   VILLAGE   WITH   FISH,   TOO,    FOR  THE   STREAMS   WERE 
CHOKED  WITH   GIANT  SNAPPERS,  JEWFISH,   AND  TARPON 


WE  PUT  FULL  TRUST  IN  THESE  LITTLE  MEN  WHOM  WE  FOLLOWED 
INTO   WILDERNESSES  AND   SWAMPS, 


WE   FISHED   THE   CARDI   RIVER  AND   WE   HUNTED   IT 


THE  SAN  BLAS  PEOPLE 

Panama  is  the  youngest  nation  of  the  West- 
ern World.  Has  she  the  will  or  the  desire  to 
profit  by  the  mistakes  of  her  older  neighbor  to 
the  north,  or  will  she  let  the  San  Bias  people 
fall  a  prey  to  those  evil  practices  which 
destroyed  the  Indians  of  our  plains?  If  she 
has  that  willingness,  the  opportunity  for  a 
humane  act  is  hers,  and  the  San  Bias  tribe 
will  thrive;  if  not,  it  will  doubtless  disappear. 

Charlie  Robinson,  the  chief  of  River  Di- 
abolo,  came  to  Colon  to  see  me  and  thence  out 
to  the  spillway  where  the  tarpon  were  striking. 
To  the  music  of  the  rushing  waters  of  the 
Chagres  and  in  the  shadow  of  those  great  con- 
crete walls,  he  said,  naively: 

"We  are  good  people,  only  we  don't  know 
how  to  speak  English.  Tell  us  how  to  get  our 
lands  so  that  we  may  leave  homes  for  our 
babies  to  live  in.  The  President  of  Panama 
says  he  can't  help  us.  Do  you  think  the 
Americans  can?" 

I  wanted  to  reassure  him,  but  I  could 
not. 

As  he  went  away  he  shook  my  hand  and 
said: 

"You  are  our  friend.     You  will  come  back 
some  time,  and  we  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 
10  J39 


OH,  SHOOT! 

I  hope  I  can  go  back,  for  I'd  like  to  try  those 
tapir  once  more.  I'd  like  to  smell  the  San 
Bias  fires  and  see  those  bronze  boys  dancing 
to  their  pipes.  Maybe,  the  next  time,  Billy 
Smith  and  I  could  catch  that  devil  at  the 
graveyard.  Who  knows? 


IV 

ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  COWARDLY 
COUGAR 

A  MOVING  picture  was  responsible  for  this 
2\  trip.  Photographically,  the  picture  was 
nothing  to  brag  about,  but  it  had  a  punch,  for 
it  showed  a  certain  Mr.  "Buffalo"  Jones  en- 
gaged in  the  flickery  pastime  of  roping  moun- 
tain lions.  Fred  Stone  and  I  saw  the  picture 
and  heard  Mr.  Jones's  explanatory  lecture 
regarding  it  at  the  Sportsman's  Show.  When 
the  lecturer  assured  us  that,  despite  the  lion's 
apparent  ferocity,  he  is  in  reality  a  timid, 
craven  creature,  and  when  he  backed  up  this 
assertion  by  substantial  celluloid  proof,  we, 
Fred  and  I,  decided  that  here  was  a  mild  sort 
of  adventure,  well  calculated  to  appeal  to  a 
couple  of  nervous  sportsmen  like  us. 

Like  most  hunters,  we  had  heard  shuddery 
cougar  stories  from  untruthful  guides  and  we 
considered  the  animals  big  game,  but  we  had 
never  met  one  in  the  flesh  south  of  the  Bronx. 

141 


OH,  SHOOT! 

In  consequence,  we  were  for  some  time  at  a 
loss  just  where  to  go  cougar  hunting.  But 
one  day  we  met  and  held  converse  with  Am- 
brose Means,  a  Western  cow  gentleman,  bron- 
cho buster,  and  showman.  Mr.  Means  had 
been  a  member  of  two  African  expeditions, 
had  roped  wild  lions,  rhinoceri,  water  buffa- 
loes, wart  hogs,  and  such  other  veldt  animals 
as  are  possessed  of  legs,  horns,  humps,  warts, 
and  other  physical  deformities  or  facial  blem- 
ishes over  which  he  could  cast  a  loop. 

At  the  time  of  our  meeting  he  was  engaged, 
for  hire,  in  the  business  of  leading  tenderfeet 
into  the  wilds  of  Arizona  and  guiding  them 
out,  and  he  assured  us  that  a  kindly  fate  had 
sent  us  to  him.  When  we  confessed  our  burn- 
ing desire  to  sit  for  our  portraits  with  as  many 
cougars  as  could  be  assembled,  he  declared 
that  he  was  the  very  man  to  ease  our  pain. 

"I'm  your  huckleberry!"  said  he.  "The 
north  side  of  the  Grand  Canon,  where  I  hunt, 
is  all  littered  up  with  lions.  They're  a  public 
nuisance,  or  they  would  be  if  there  was  any 
public,  which  there  ain't.  Uncle  Jim  Owen, 
my  pardner,  has  been  a  government  hunter 
and  has  killed  over  six  hundred,  himself,  right 
there.  He  was  with  Jones  when  he  got  those 

142 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

pictures;  he  had  Roosevelt  once.  He  owns 
the  best  lion  dogs  in  the  country,  and  him  and 
I  will  give  you  a  trip  you'll  remember." 

Looking  Mr.  Means  squarely  in  the  eye,  I 
said,  significantly: 

"We  want  to  remember  the  trip,  but  we 
want  to  remember  it  pleasantly.  What  sort 
of  a  trip  will  it  be? " 

"Easy — a  perfect  cinch." 

"Any  danger?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Why,  you  can  take  your  wives 
along." 

Now  Mr.  Means  had  never  met  our  respective 
families,  which  thus  explains  his  inaccuracy. 

"There  was  a  time,"  I  cautioned  him, 
"when  work  didn't  come  hard  enough  to  suit 
me,  when  a  certain  sense  of  personal  peril 
gave  me  a  pleasurable  thrill,  when  I  could 
dance  all  night  in  rubber  boots  and  a  mack- 
inaw  coat  and  never  turn  a  hair.  But  city 
life  softens  a  man.  The  time  has  come  when 
I  shudder  at  a  callous.  I  jump  through  a 
plate-glass  window  when  a  car  back-fires,  and 
a  single  fox  trot  leaves  me  panting  like  a 
lizard.  I  have  outlived  hardships;  I  loathe 
exposure;  I  love  hammocks,  rich  food,  and 
debilitating  luxuries — " 

143 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"The  grub  will  be  fine — leave  that  to  me," 
Mr.  Means  broke  in,  but  I  checked  him, 
saying: 

"Understand,  Fred  is  an  actor,  and  there- 
fore he  owes  it  to  himself  to  safeguard  his  per- 
sonal appearance.  For  instance,  if  a  lion 
should  bite,  hook,  or  kick  him  in  the  face,  he'd 
have  to  play  the  part  of  a  German  duelist, 
and,  under  present  conditions,  such  a  role 
couldn't  be  made  sympathetic.  What  I  would 
like  to  be  perfectly  certain  of,  before  we  go 
farther—" 

"Why,  a  cougar  is  scared  of  his  own 
shadow,"  Ambrose  said,  positively.  "Of 
course,  if  one  licked  your  hand,  it  'd  scratch, 
because  his  tongue's  rough.  But  they're 
gentle  as  dogs — they  got  good  hearts — 'and 
this  trip  is  just  what  you  boys  need.  It  '11 
rest  you  and  tone  you  up.  You  bring  a 
camera  and  an  operator,  and  I'll  attend  to  the 
other  arrangements.  We'll  sure  have  one 
time !  And  we'll  rope  cougars  till  we're  plumb 
tired." 

Here,  at  the  start,  arose  a  question.  Fred, 
of  course,  is  an  expert  roper — he  can  eat 
noodles  with  a  lariat — and  Means  had  demon- 
strated his  ability  to  rope,  throw,  and  hog-tie 

144 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

anything  from  a  horned  toad  to  a  tornado. 
Eut  as  for  me,  I  am  no  loop  hound — I  couldn't 
rope  a  stack  of  elk  horns — hence  the  problem 
was  just  how  and  where  I  fitted  into  the 
expedition. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  Ambrose  finally  sug- 
gested. "Fred  and  I'll  do  the  roping,  and  you 
can  be  the  gunman.  Of  course,  a  cougar  is  a 
coward  and  a  quitter,  all  right,  but  if  I  go  up 
a  tree  to  tie  a  hemp  four-in-hand  under  his 
chin,  I  want  to  be  able  to  look  down  into  the 
face  of  a  friend  with  a  thirty- thirty." 

Fred  allowed  that  such  would  doubtless  be 
his  own  feelings  under  similar  circumstances. 
He  declared,  too,  that  the  presence  of  an 
armed  escort  would  probably  quiet  the  cam- 
era man's  nerves.  Camera  men  are  notorious 
cowards,  so  he  said. 

I  was  prompt  in  my  statement  that  if  this 
enterprise  threatened  to  become  a  competition 
in  cowardice,  I  was  eager  to  enter,  and  so, 
after  a  deal  of  discussion,  it  was  arranged  that 
I  should  go  along  as  a  sort  of  protective 
measure.  Even  then  Ambrose  was  not  alto- 
gether easy  in  his  mind,  for  he  said: 

"I've  seen  fellers  miss  'em  cold.  There 
won't  be  no  time  to  pin  a  target  on  the  lion's 

us 


OH,  SHOOT! 

chest,  you  understand.  If  you  shoot  one  of  us, 
he'll  get  away." 

"Spoil  the  picture,  too,"  Fred  declared. 

I  agreed  that  the  point  was  well  taken ;  then 
I  argued,  reasonably  enough,  that  if  I  became 
so  nervous  as  to  miss  the  cougar  entirely,  I 
would  doubtless  miss  either  or  both  of  the 
ropers  as  well  and  no  harm  would  be  done. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  but  one  man  climbed  the 
tree,  instead  of  two,  that  in  itself  would  re- 
duce the  risk  50  per  cent — a  simple  problem 
in  subtraction.  Anyhow,  I  asserted,  people 
who  capture  wild  animals  should  expect  to  run 
some  risks. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  why  and  the  where- 
fore of  this  expedition,  the  detail,  the  disap- 
pointment, and  the  drama  of  which  I  have  set 
out  to  narrate  in  a  simple,  conservative,  and 
shameless  fashion. 

Ambrose  met  us  on  the  date  set,  when  we 
stepped  off  the  train  at  Grand  Canon,  Arizona, 
and,  for  our  part,  we  displayed  to  him  a 
camera  man  who,  we  had  been  assured,  would 
stand  without  being  hitched.  This  camera 
man  had  never  taken  any  wild-animal  pic- 
tures; he  had  never  been  west  of  Newark,  in 
fact,  but  he  had  recently  photographed  several 

146 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

"movie"  serials  with  famous  female  stars,  and 
he  looked  forward  with  relief  to  meeting  a 
cougar.  In  addition  to  him,  our  party  had 
grown  to  include  Fred's  brother  and  a  tired 
business  man  from  Chicago,  both  of  whom 
had  come  along  to  see  if  we  were  really  in 
earnest. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  not.  I  had  no 
more  intention  of  roping  a  lion  than  had  they, 
it  being  my  desire  to  act  purely  in  the  capacity 
of  a  dispassionate  witness.  Likewise,  I  had 
my  doubts  about  Fred. 

"We  can't  cross  here,  like  I  planned,"  Am- 
brose announced.  "There's  too  much  water 
in  Bright  Angel  Creek,  so  we'll  go  down  the 
Bass  Trail,  twenty-five  miles  west.  Uncle 
Jim's  waiting  on  the  other  side  with  the  dogs. 
Now  then,  shed  your  parade  clothes  and  get 
into  something  decent.  I'm  r'arin'  to  go." 

None  of  our  party  had  seen  the  Grand 
Spasm  of  the  Colorado.  We  had  heard  it 
highly  spoken  of,  to  be  sure,  but  not  until  we 
strolled  out  in  front  of  the  El  Tovar  and  the 
thing  hit  us  in  the  eye  did  we  begin  to  appre- 
ciate what  sort  of  a  job  we  had  put  upon  our- 
selves— what  it  means  to  cross  that  amazing 
rift  in  the  earth's  surface.  Without  any  exag- 

147 


OH,  SHOOT! 

gerated  attempt  at  praise,  without  any  hys- 
terical effort  to  eulogize,  I  may  say  that  it  is 
some  chasm,  and  we  thought  well  of  it.  As 
chasms  go,  it's  a  bear.  Personally,  I  don't 
like  chasms — they're  hollow  and  they're  un- 
safe. In  looking  at  a  landscape,  I  prefer  to 
see  space  occupied  by  tangible  scenery  of  some 
sort;  here  was  an  appalling  nothingness,  a 
complete  minus  of  everything  except  air,  and 
one  had  to  look  too  far  down,  too  far  across, 
to  see  anything.  Nor  do  I  wish  to  appear 
hypercritical,  a  fault  common  to  so  many  New 
Yorkers,  but  honesty  compels  me  to  say  there 
is  nothing  in  the  least  homelike  or  cozy  about 
the  Grand  Canon,  and  it  is  utterly  devoid  of 
even  the  simplest  comforts.  To  anyone  ac- 
customed to  mountains  that  stick  up,  there  is 
something  odd,  something  distressingly  un- 
usual, about  looking  down  upon  a  whole  system 
of  towering  peaks.  Those  mountains  you  see 
below  your  feet  are  good  sizable  mountains 
and  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of — in  fact,  we'd 
be  proud  to  claim  them  in  the  East,  just  to 
show  up  some  of  our  old  favorites — but  Ari- 
zona hides  them  away  in  a  hole!  And  cliffs! 
You  can  look  in  every  direction  and  see  any 
number  of  fine,  imposing  cliffs — wasted.  It  is 

148 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

criminal  extravagance,  and  something  should 
be  done  about  it. 

Facing  us,  from  twelve  to  twenty  miles 
distant  as  the  crow  would  fly  if  he  had  the 
nerve  to  tackle  such  a  flight,  stood  the  North 
Wall,  our  destination  and  the  home  of  the 
cowardly  cougar  we  had  come  to  humiliate. 
It  appeared  to  be  a  level  mesa,  somewhat 
higher  than  the  seven-thousand-foot  plateau 
where  we  were.  That  mesa  deserves  a  word 
of  description,  for  although  vast  numbers  of 
tourists  annually  gaze  upon  it,  although  last 
year  a  good  many  thousand  people  descended 
Bright  Angel  Trail  as  far  as  the  river,  very  few 
indeed  have  gone  beyond  and  essayed  the 
difficult  ascent  of  the  other  side. 

The  country  immediately  north  of  the 
Canon  is  a  veritable  wilderness  and  as  inac- 
cessible as  any  you  will  be  likely  to  find.  It 
is  covered  by  a  magnificent  forest  and  a  gov- 
ernment restriction  against  hunting,  trapping, 
plural  marriages,  and  other  primitive  pas- 
times, all  of  which  are  more  or  less  honored  in 
the  breach,  especially  by  local  Mormons.  It  is 
guarded  from  trespassers  on  the  south  by  the 
titanic,  mile-deep  void,  formed  as  a  conse- 
quence of  the  unprecedented  behavior  of  the 

149 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Colorado  River.  The  river  itself,  by  the  way, 
is  crossable  in  a  length  of  over  two  hundred 
miles  in  but  two  places,  and  there  only  by  the 
assistance  of  slender  wire  cables,  totally  un- 
suited  to  the  average  nervous  temperament; 
hence  there  isn't  much  crowding  from  this 
direction.  Toward  the  north,  one  may  travel 
some  hundreds  of  miles  before  striking  a  rail- 
road ;  and  to  the  east  and  west  there  is  a  lot  of 
unimproved,  vacant  property,  peopled  mainly 
by  tribes  of  warlike  North  American  aborigines 
engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  baskets,  blan- 
kets, beadwork,  and  prehistoric  pottery  for 
Fred  Harvey's  line  of  curio  stores.  Frightful 
tales  are  told  of  Indian  atrocities  in  these  parts, 
and  I  know  they  are  true,  for  I  bought  several. 
This  north  bank  of  the  Canon  is  in  reality 
the  backbone  of  the  Buckskins — -mountains 
which  are  aptly  named,  for  every  buck  abo- 
rigine with  whom  I  dickered  for  a  genu- 
ine Hartford,  Connecticut,  Navajo  blanket 
skinned  me.  However,  it  is  an  interesting  if 
deceptive  country ;  although  it  appears  to  be 
as  level  as  a  floor,  in  reality  it  is  rent  by 
ravines,  cracked  by  canons,  and  pitted  with 
potholes — altogether  quite  the  place  a  moun- 
tain lion  would  select  for  a  residence. 

150 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

The  complexion  of  our  outing,  by  the  way, 
began  to  alter  immediately  after  our  first 
glimpse  of  the  Canon.  Doubts  began  to  rise 
in  our  minds  as  to  whether  we  were,  after  all, 
precisely  the  men  for  this  undertaking.  These 
doubts  were  intensified  when,  as  a  matter  of 
precaution,  Louis  looked  up  in  the  hotel  ency- 
clopedia a  description  of  the  animal  we  had 
come  to.  capture.  What  he  found  caused  us 
to  question  the  complete  frankness  of  Mr. 
"Buffalo"  Jones's  report  to  us,  for  it  read  in 
part: 

The  cougar,  or  puma,  is  ordinarily  a  cowardly  animal, 
but  when  wounded  or  brought  to  bay  it  is  dangerous.  It 
is  entirely  silent.  Etc. 

It  seemed  that  we  had  been  deceived.  Mr. 
Jones  had  not  dealt  fairly  with  us,  and  Am- 
brose Means — well,  he  had  probably  never 
read  an  encyclopedia  with  care.  The  ques- 
tion arose,  therefore,  whether  we  should 
satisfy  our  longing  for  adventure  by  a  sight- 
seeing trip  on  a  buckboard  and  return  to  face 
our  respective  and  expectant  wives,  or  whether 
we  should  go  on  across  the  Canon  and  risk  the 
lions.  When  the  matter  was  put  in  this  light, 
not  one  man  wavered.  A  lion  at  bay  is  not  a 
pleasant  neighbor,  but,  for  that  matter,  neither 


OH,  SHOOT! 

is  a  disappointed  and  sarcastic  wife.  We 
knew  our  wives,  but  we  didn't  know  those 
lions;  therefore  we  proceeded  with  our  prepa- 
rations. After  careful  debate  it  seemed  to  us 
that  by  the  exercise  of  some  caution  we  could 
probably  avoid  wounding  our  prey,  no  matter 
how  sensitive  he  should  prove ;  as  for  bringing 
him  to  bay,  as  for  cornering  him  where  he 
would  have  to  sell  his  life  dearly,  such,  we 
agreed,  was  no  part  of  our  program.  Lions  are 
God's  creatures;  they  have  a  right  to  live. 
The  news  that  they  are  silent  was,  on  the 
whole,  welcome,  for  we  reasoned  that,  if  worse 
came  to  the  worst,  they  could  be  depended 
upon  to  say  nothing  and  we  could  drop  the 
matter  at  any  time. 

We  "went  over  the  rim"  from  Bass's  Camp 
the  next  morning,  and  Mr.  Bass,  himself  a 
young  man  of  some  sixty-odd  years,  accom- 
panied us  for  the  exercise  of  climbing  down 
into  the  Canon  and  out  again. 

Mr.  Bass  was  sent  West  by  the  doctors 
thirty-five  years  ago  to  die  of  tuberculosis, 
but  the  Arizona  climate  has  foiled  his  every 
effort  to  carry  out  instructions  and  he  remains 
a  disappointment  to  those  few  physicians  who 
survive  him.  He  is,  accidentally,  a  geologist ; 

152 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

incidentally,  he  is  a  poet,  a  minstrel  who  sings 
of  the  open  road,  the  wind,  and  the  sunshine. 
Providentially,  he  is  a  liveryman,  and  it  was 
his  burro  train  which  carried  our  motion- 
picture  camera,  cigars,  smoking  tobacco,  ciga- 
rettes, pipes,  golf  clubs,  and  various  articles 
of  impedimenta.  Yes,  we  had  brought  golf 
clubs.  Louis  was  not  satisfied  with  his  ' '  long ' ' 
game;  it  was  his  ambition  to  execute  a  four- 
hundred-yard  drive,  and  he  had  figured  that 
by  teeing  up  on  the  edge  of  some  precipitous 
bluff  he  could  realize  his  life's  dream.  But, 
alas!  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment,  for 
Fate  intervened  in  her  characteristic  manner. 
On  the  night  of  our  arrival,  when  we  built 
our  signal  fire  to  notify  Uncle  Jim  that  we 
were  ready  to  "go  over,"  Louis  had  com- 
plained of  the  altitude.  He  spent  a  bad  night, 
and  in  the  morning  he  felt  worse.  His  pulse 
was  behaving  erratically  and  he  displayed  all 
the  symptoms  of  mountain  sickness.  Al- 
though he  insisted  upon  making  the  start 
with  us,  we  were  forced  to  send  him  back 
after  an  hour  or  more.  We  acted  wisely,  as 
it  transpired,  for  he  was  certainly  in  no  phys- 
ical condition  to  stand  the  hard,  high  climbing 
which  we  later  encountered.  Gloom  settled 

153 


OH,  SHOOT! 

upon  us  at  losing  our  friend,  for  not  only  did 
his  absence  promise  to  increase  the  per-capita 
risk  for  the  rest  of  us,  if  risk  there  should  prove 
to  be,  but  in  his  outfit  there  were  several 
boxes  of  the  largest,  most  expensive  cigars  we 
had  ever  beheld  at  close  range.  To  be  de- 
prived of  both  him  and  them  caused  us  honest 
grief.  However,  we  made  the  best  of  an  un- 
fortunate business,  bade  Louis  a  heartfelt 
farewell  in  which  the  apprehensive  quavers  of 
our  voices  matched  the  regretful  tremor  in  his, 
and  that  night  we  frisked  his  baggage  for  those 
Havanas. 

Mr.  Bass  is  proud  of  his  little  trail,  and 
during  the  long,  arduous  descent  thereof  he 
referred  fondly  to  it  more  than  once.  He 
told  us  how  an  Indian  had  shown  it  to  him, 
and  although  I  listened  courteously,  it  was 
my  private  belief  that  said  Indian  might  have 
found  better  use  for  his  time.  I  pretended  to 
echo  Mr.  Bass's  words  of  praise,  but  in  reality 
my  heart  was  black  and  my  tongue  was  forked, 
this  being  a  quaint  Supai  figure  of  speech 
meaning  that  I  was  stalling.  In  reality,  I  con- 
sidered it  the  worst  thing  in  the  shape  of  a 
road,  route,  right  of  way,  or  public  easement 
which  I  had  ever  clung  to.  In  the  first  place, 

154 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

it  was  about  as  wide  as  a  rut  or  a  bicycle 
track,  and  it  showed  plainly  that  the  copper- 
skinned  brave  who  laid  it  out  wore  an  AA  last. 
The  worst  feature  about  the  trail,  however, 
was  that  it  had  only  one  side,  and  that  side 
was  forever  trying  to  shove  us  off.  Where 
the  other  side  should  have  been  there  was 
invariably  a  void,  some  yawning  cavity  with  a 
lot  of  repulsive  scenery  at  the  bottom.  I  am 
at  home  in  oblique  countries,  but  this  was  my 
first  experience  in  the  land  of  the  perpendicu- 
lar, and  it  taught  me  something. 

For  instance,  I  never  knew  that  a  horse  is  a 
lopsided  animal,  and  that  it  can  walk  with  its 
feet  on  a  ledge  while  its  entire  body  projects 
over  an  adjoining  gorge.  Nor  did  I  know  how 
the  ancient  cliff  dwellers  built  their  fires.  It 
was  not  by  rubbing  sticks  together,  as  has  been 
claimed;  it  was  by  striking  bones,  one  upon 
the  other.  This  I  discovered  when,  out  of 
consideration  for  my  tired  mount,  I  got  off  and 
shinned  round  the  edge  of  a  cliff  upon  what 
seemed  to  be  a  poor  imitation  of  a  rain-gutter. 
Pausing  to  admire  the  wondrous  panorama 
outspread  below  me  and  to  change  my  grip 
from  a  thorn  bush  to  a  cactus,  I  noticed,  first, 
that  the  outline  of  my  legs  was  indistinct,  like 
n  J5S 


OH,  SHOOT! 

a  blurred  photograph,  then  that  my  kneecaps 
were  striking  sparks,  like  a  flint  and  steel. 

But  all  things  are  comparative;  no  matter 
how  sick  we  are,  we  can  always  get  worse. 
When  I  recrossed  the  Canon,  three  weeks  later, 
when  I  clambered  down  off  the  north  rim  and 
struck  the  Bass  Trail  up  the  south  side,  it 
looked  like  Broadway. 

That  first  night  we  camped  among  some 
bowlders  near  a  spring,  and  winged  Zulus 
assagaied  us.  No  tourists  had  passed  this 
way  in  a  long  time,  and  those  mosquitoes  were 
on  their  last  legs,  but  we  saved  them.  It  was 
hot;  there  was  sand  in  the  butter;  there  were 
rocks  under  our  blankets;  our  cigars  were 
broken  and  were  becoming  dried  out.  How- 
ever, we  bore  these  hardships  stoically  and 
looked  forward  to  the  time  when  we  would 
romp  about  in  the  exhilarating  ozone  of  the 
Kaibab  Plateau,  engaging  the  cougar  in  its 
native  sports  and  pastimes. 

Bass's  Ferry  consists  of  four  spidery  wires 
spanning  the  gorge  of  the  Colorado.  From 
these  wires  is  suspended  a  rickety  wooden 
cage  which  works  with  a  windlass.  It  is  a 
sort  of  magnified  cash  conveyer,  and  by  means 
of  it  we  set  about  crossing  our  horses  and  out- 

156 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

fit  early  the  following  morning.  Inasmuch  as 
there  appeared  to  be  an  unvoiced  question  as 
to  whether  the  contraption  would  carry  a 
horse,  we  set  up  the  camera  in  the  hope  of 
getting  a  good  picture  in  case  it  wouldn't. 

This  was  a  splendid  setting  for  a  moving- 
picture  calamity,  for  the  cables  extend  from 
one  bleak,  black  wall  to  another,  and  seventy- 
five  feet  below  them  the  river  rushes  past, 
breaking  up  a  short  distance  downstream  into 
a  picturesque  cataract. 

When  the  first  horse  descended  to  the  niche 
which  forms  the  cage  landing  and  got  a  peek 
at  the  river  below,  he  shook  his  head,  folded 
his  arms,  crossed  his  feet,  and  sat  down. 

"Women  and  children  first,"  he  plainly 
said. 

You  may  not  know  that  a  horse's  neck  is  of 
elastic  construction  and  will  stretch  like  the 
coil  of  lemon  peel  in  that  beverage  from  which 
his  neck  derives  its  name ;  but  such  is  the  case. 
We  stretched  this  animal's  neck  to  the  size  of 
a  garden  hose;  we  tied  granny  knots  in  his 
tail,  and  then,  more  in  sorrow  than  anger,  we 
took  him  in  our  arms,  carried  him  into  the 
cage,  tied  him  securely,  and  barred  him  in  with 
pieces  of  plank.  This  done,  there  followed  a 

157 


OH,  SHOOT! 

call  for  volunteers  to  windlass  the  burden 
across,  thus  ascertaining  if  the  cables  would 
stand  the  strain. 

It  was  Ambrose  and  Bert  Lauzon  who  finally 
manned  the  windlass,  cast  off,  and  went  flying 
down  the  wires. 

These  wires  sag  considerably;  hence  the 
start  of  their  journey  was  swift.  Perhaps  a 
third  of  the  way  across,  the  car  came  to  a 
pause,  whereupon  the  boys  set  about  winding 
it  slowly  onward  and  upward  by  main  strength 
and  awkwardness. 

Miller,  the  operator,  was  frankly  disap- 
pointed when  nothing  gave  way.  When  the 
cage  went  bobbing  and  creaking  onward,  a 
foot  at  a  time,  he  quit  turning  the  camera 
crank  and  seated  himself  dejectedly,  with  his 
legs  hanging  over  the  gorge.  Near  him  was  a 
high  pinnacle  of  rock  round  the  base  of  which 
the  river  foamed;  sizing  it  up,  he  announced 
that  he  could  get  a  good  picture  if  Fred  would 
ascend  it  and  do  some  fancy  roping  at  the  top. 
Evidently  it  was  a  matter  of  complete  in- 
difference to  him  who  supplied  the  thrills  on 
this  trip,  who  fell  in,  so  long  as  he  got  it,  but 
we  dared  not  risk  offending  him  thus  early  in 
the  game,  so  we  boosted  Fred  up  to  the  peak 

158 


THAT  FIRST  NIGHT   WE  CAMPED  AMONG  SOME   BOWLDERS   NEAR  A   SPRING 


IT   WAS   HOT,   AND   THERE   WAS   SAND   IN   THE   BUTTER 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

of  the  rock,  where  he  balanced  dizzily,  whirling 
his  lariat  until  Miller  again  stopped  the  ma- 
chine, saying  he  guessed  it  was  no  use. 

We  lost  our  third  horse.  He  went  into  the 
cage  more  easily  than  the  first  two,  and  there- 
fore less  care  was  taken  in  tying  him  close. 
Just  before  the  start  he  began  to  plunge  and, 
in  a  sudden  frenzy  of  terror,  he  managed,  as  a 
result  of  our  carelessness,  to  get  partially  over 
the  bars  in  front  of  him  and  fetch  up,  head 
down,  in  which  position  he  threatened  to 
strangle,  for  the  ropes  at  his  neck,  although 
they  prevented  him  from  sliding  out  of  the 
open  end  of  the  cage,  also  shut  off  his  wind. 

Lauzon  leaped  to  the  rescue,  but  the  ani- 
mal's struggles  broke  the  cage  loose  from  its 
moorings  and  it  shot  out  from  the  landing. 
Bert  was  as  quick  to  appreciate  the  perils  of 
an  aerial  trip  in  a  cage  with  a  struggling  horse 
as  were  we,  and  even  as  we  yelled  at  him  to 
jump  he  quitted  the  car.  Immediately  below 
him  was  a  steep  slope  of  broken  rock,  the  foot 
of  which  was  swept  by  the  rushing  river.  Out 
over  this,  man,  horse,  and  car  had  begun  their 
trip.  Bert  landed  on  a  thin  knife  edge  of 
rock,  slipped,  but  caught  himself  with  his 
hands,  steadied  himself,  and  climbed  back  to 

159 


OH,  SHOOT! 

us.  The  cage  had  come  to  rest  a  short  dis- 
tance out  and  the  horse  was  threatening  to 
demolish  it  in  his  dying  struggles. 

"He's  done  for,"  said  Bert.  "He'll  choke 
before  we  can  shin  out  there  and  windlass  the 
cage  back." 

"  Shall  I  cut  him  down?  "  inquired  one  of  the 
boys. 

Plainly  that  was  the  quickest  way  of  ending 
the  creature's  agony,  so  the  suggestion  was 
acted  upon. 

As  the  first  rope  was  cut,  the  horse,  in  a  final 
spasm,  kicked  himself  free  of  the  bars,  slid 
head  first  out  of  the  tip-tilted  cage,  and  hanged 
himself  high  in  midair  over  the  torrent. 

We  were  all  very  much  relieved  when  he 
had  been  cut  down,  when  the  cage  failed  to 
follow  him,  and  when  the  entire  transaction 
was  closed.  These  events  had  not  taken 
long,  and  we  had  quite  forgotten  Miller  and 
his  machine,  which  he  had  been  industriously 
turning.  Now  he  called  down  to  us: 

"Good  work!  But  the  censors  won't  pass 
it.  I  got  everything  except  the  leap  for 
life.  If  you'll  start  the  cage  again  and  let 
Bert  make  another  jump,  I'll  get  him  in  the 
air." 

160 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

We  realized  that  we  had  with  us  a  good 
operator. 

When  we  had  sent  our  last  horse  over,  had 
loaded  our  outfit,  and  were  ready  to  step  into 
the  car,  Mr.  Bass's  party  bade  us  farewell. 
The  simple  earnestness  of  their  assurances  that 
it  had  indeed  pleased  them  to  know  us,  even 
thus  briefly,  was  depressing.  Their  sincerity 
seemed  to  argue  that  they  feared  the  pleasure 
would  not  be  renewed  and  that  they  expected 
to  know  us  henceforth  only  in  memory — 
which,  in  view  of  our  immediate  surroundings, 
we  ourselves  had  begun  to  fear. 

To  anyone  suffering  from  ennui,  I  can 
recommend  as  a  cure  a  trip  across  the  gorge  of 
the  Colorado  River  on  a  wire  cable.  The  view 
is  fine,  and  it  extends  in  all  directions,  espe- 
cially up  and  down.  I  know  now  that  I  would 
never  care  for  flying.  As  we  dangled  'twixt 
wind  and  water,  and  the  cage  sprang  up  and 
down  while  the  whole  rigging  gave  and  took 
with  sundry  alarming  groans  and  warnings, 
we  stared  hypnotically  at  the  river  below  us 
and  vowed  that  already  this  Arizona  country 
had  made  better  men  of  us. 

In  answer  to  our  signal  fire,  Uncle  Jim  had 
sent  two  cowboys  to  meet  us  and,  once  across 

161 


OH,  SHOOT! 

the  river,  they  helped  us  to  repack  and  re- 
saddle  the  horses  we  had  brought,  together  with 
some  others  which  Uncle  Jim  had  sent  by  them. 
They  bore  us  the  glad  tidings  that  the  trail  up 
was  a  "heller,"  and  that  Shinumo  Creek,  along 
which  it  led  for  a  way,  was  so  high  that,  in  com- 
ing down,  their  horses  had  been  swept  away 
and  they  had  lost  most  of  their  grub. 

But  interest  did  not  wait  until  we  arrived 
at  the  Shinumo.  En  route  thereto,  over  a 
bold  and  frowning  ridge  which  separated  us 
from  that  brawling  stream,  one  of  our  pack 
horses  was  seized  with  a  bilious  attack  of 
vertigo  and  made  a  scene.  He  it  was  upon 
whose  back  we  had  lashed  our  moving-picture 
camera,  all  of  the  cigars,  cigarettes,  plug  and 
pipe  tobacco,  cigarette  papers,  pipe  cleaners, 
and  the  like,  and  he  it  was  who  occupied  the 
place  of  honor  in  our  caravan.  The  trail  was 
a  sick  affair  at  best.  It  writhed  in  agony;  it 
zigged  painfully  upward  for  a  short  distance, 
then  changed  its  mind  and  zagged  back  again. 
This  it  repeated  over  and  over. 

When  the  camera  horse  had  selected  a  place 
too  steep  and  too  narrow  for  us  to  turn  around 
in,  he  let  go,  flung  himself  into  our  arms,  say- 
ing, "Take  me  as  I  am! " 

162 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

It  is  no  part  of  a  restful  vacation  to  dig  your 
hobnails  into  solid  rock,  hold  a  hysterical 
horse  against  the  side  of  a  precipice  while  you 
unload,  resurrect,  and  repack  him.  To  suc- 
cessfully perform  the  feat  one  should  be  deaf, 
dumb,  and  blind  to  outside  impressions,  and 
he  should  possess  as  many  legs  as  a  spider  and 
as  many  arms  as  an  octopus.  We  were  quite 
ready  to  camp  when  we  finally  arrived  at  the 
Shinumo. 

The  Shinumo  occupies  a  high-sided  canon, 
through  which  it  dashes  in  a  spirited  fashion, 
regardless  of  the  comfort  of  travelers.  The 
melting  snows  had  raised  it  and  had  turned  it 
to  a  milky  whiteness.  We  negotiated  our 
first  ford  at  no  greater  cost  than  a  partial 
wetting  and  a  total  paralysis  of  mind  and 
body.  Neither  Paul  nor  Miller,  the  operator, 
could  swim,  so  precautions  were  taken.  The 
loop  of  a  lariat  was  placed  about  the  neck  of 
each,  it  being  Ambrose's  ingenious  idea  that  if 
the  horses  were  carried  away,  he  could  haul  the 
riders  to  safety  and  at  the  same  time  prevent 
getting  any  water  into  their  lungs. 

Our  optimism  increased  when  the  second 
crossing  had  been  effected  without  casualty, 
but  as  we  made  ready  for  the  third  and  last 

163 


OH,  SHOOT! 

adventure,  Pat,  who  was  in  the  lead,  warned  us 
to  follow  in  his  tracks  as  nearly  as  possible. 

"The  creek  runs  over  a  ledge  here/'  he 
explained.  "But  you'll  go  through  safe 
enough  if  you  stay  on  it.  If  you  don't  stay  on 
it,  you'll  drop  off  below  and  wet  yourself  and 
all  your  fixtures." 

"Lead  your  ace!"  we  quavered,  above  the 
turmoil  of  rushing  waters. 

Pat  spurred  his  horse  in,  and,  after  a  breath- 
less period  of  uncertainty,  he  emerged  upon  the 
opposite  side,  giving  voice  to  a  shrill  yell  of 
triumph  and  encouragement.  He  had  carried 
in  his  hand  a  long  lead  rope,  made  fast  to  the 
camera  horse.  The  animal  had  less  success 
with  its  endeavor.  When  the  water  foamed 
about  its  belly,  it  stumbled,  lost  its  footing, 
slipped,  and  staggered  downstream  for  a  few 
feet,  then  tore  the  halter  out  of  Pat's  grasp  and 
was  washed  away. 

"There  goes  the  machine!"  cried  Miller. 

"And  a  thousand  feet  of  film!"  Fred 
groaned. 

"And  all  our  cigars!"  I  wailed. 

We  were  frozen  with  horror,  but  Bill 
Vaughan  seized  a  rope,  and,  with  loop  whirling 
above  his  head,  went  loping  down  the  bank 

164 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

abreast  of  the  U-horse.  Now  its  head  ap- 
peared, now  its  belly;  again  the  white  pack 
cover  came  into  view.  Bill  made  a  cast,  lost 
his  slippery  footing,  and  fell  into  the  stream, 
whereupon,  to  quote  that  immortal  lyric 
dealing  with  the  fatal  adventures  of  Ten 
Little  Indians,  "there  were  two." 

Ambrose  had  remained  upon  the  opposite 
bank.  Fortunately  enough,  he  had  retained 
his  lariat — trust  your  cowman  to  keep  his 
tobacco  and  his  rope  handy.  By  the  time  we 
had  unlimbered  our  still  cameras,  he,  too,  was 
endeavoring  to  save  the  unfortunate  beast. 
But  the  current  foiled  him;  it  swept  his  loop 
off  time  after  time,  until,  at  last,  the  horse 
turned  its  head  upstream,  whereupon  he 
made  a  perfect  catch,  sat  back  on  his  haunches, 
and  was  dragged  stiff-legged  over  the  rocks, 
like  the  anchor  of  an  airship.  He  took  a 
dally  around  a  small  quaking-asp  near  the 
water's  edge,  and,  although  the  tree  came  out 
by  the  roots,  the  horse  came  to  rest  under  a 
steep  bank.  Just  below  was  a  nasty  chute, 
which  would  have  been  its  undoing  had  it 
failed  to  end  its  journey  at  this  point. 

"I've  got  him,"  Ambrose  yelled,  "and  he's 
a  dandy!" 

165 


OH,  SHOOT! 

It  was  quite  as  exciting  as  shark  fishing- 
while  it  lasted.  Thus  far,  the  horse  was  little 
the  worse  for  its  ducking,  but  it  had  experi- 
enced quite  enough  of  this  sort  of  thing  and 
refused  to  help  itself.  The  lariat  was  slowly 
choking  it,  which  made  it  necessary  to  salvage 
quickly  the  submerged  pack — no  easy  task  in 
ice  water  waist-deep.  Eventually,  however, 
it  was  unloaded,  and  with  the  aid  of  two  other 
horses  the  animal  was  dragged  and  rolled  up 
the  bank  to  safety. 

Our  brand-new  "movie"  camera  did  not 
leak  light,  but  it  leaked  water  when  we  held 
it  up.  It  leaked  like  a  defective  samovar,  and 
that  thousand  feet  of  film  resembled  some  sort 
of  gelatinous  breakfast  food.  But  those  aro- 
matic Havanas!  They  presented  a  heart- 
rending sight  to  us  weak  nicotine  lovers.  We 
sat  down  and  wept  silently  into  our  beards, 
casting  sand  upon  our  unhappy  heads.  You 
can  wipe  the  moisture  out  of  an  aluminum 
camera;  you  can  get  along  without  taking 
pictures,  if  you  have  to,  but  a  man  must 
smoke,  and  who — who  can  smoke  wet  cigars 
and  survive?  We  were  strong  men — we  were 
made  of  stern  stuff,  but  there  is  a  limit  to 
human  endurance.  Ambrose's  joyous  an- 

166 


THE   BOYS   SET   ABOUT  WINDING   IT  SLOWLY  ONWARD  AND  UPWARD  BY  MAIN 
STRENGTH   AND   AWKWARDNESS 


THE    HORSE    KICKED  HIMSELF    FREE    OF   THE    BARS  AND    HANGED   HIMSELF 

IN   MID-AIR 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

nouncement  that  "This  is  the  life,  boys! 
Nothing  to  do  but  eat,  sleep,  and  ride  a  horse ! " 
fell  upon  unheeding  ears.  It  was  a  ghastly 
failure  as  an  effort  to  cheer. 

We  got  safely  across  the  Shinumo — we  must 
have  done  so,  for  I  am  here — but  the  memory 
of  how  it  was  accomplished  is  lost  in  the  black 
shadows  of  forgetfulness.  We  were  dumb, 
suffering,  spiritless  creatures.  Doubtless  those 
unfeeling  cowboys  tied  their  ropes  in  our 
collars  and  towed  us  across,  hand  over  hand, 
as  they  towed  Red,  the  visiting  hound  dog 
whom  they  were  taking  along  as  an  addition 
to  Uncle  Jim's  pack.  I  don't  know. 

After  leaving  the  Shinumo,  the  scenery  be- 
comes more  arresting,  and  so  does  the  trail. 
Whoever  is  responsible  for  either  or  both 
tried  to  show  off,  and  succeeded.  In  one 
place,  as  we  dug  our  heels  into  a  ledge 
and  supported  the  weight  of  an  overhang- 
ing cliff  upon  our  shoulders,  Fred  exclaimed, 
mournfully : 

"Gee!  I'm  sorry  the  camera  is  wet!  This 
would  make  a  great  picture." 

Paul's  eyes  were  closed,  but  he  was  not 
sleeping. 

"  It  would,  indeed,"  he  declared,  with  feeling, 
167 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"and  I'd  like  to  be  in  a  plush  orchestra  seat, 
looking  at  it." 

Paul  has  a  simple,  clear  way  of  putting 
things.  Had  I  dared  to  let  go  of  anything  I 
would  have  gripped  his  hand. 

While  the  Grand  Canon,  as  I  have  stated, 
is  mostly  perpendicular,  there  are  certain 
slopes,  reputed  to  be  the  result  of  erosion. 
Such  is  not  the  reason  of  their  being — they 
are  the  result  of  pressure  from  visiting  tourists 
who,  in  terror,  have  shoved  them  out  of  plumb. 

It  began  to  rain  early  in  the  afternoon,  and 
inasmuch  as  our  grass-fed  horses  were  weak, 
this  being  the  third  day  they  had  been  prac- 
tically without  food,  we  failed  to  "top  out" 
that  night.  When  darkness  came  we  spread 
our  fly  in  a  thorny  thicket  and  Pat  molded 
a  set  of  death  balls,  which  he  case-hardened  in 
the  Dutch  oven.  We  had  no  baking-powder 
— the  Shinumo  had  seen  to  that — but  minor 
discomforts  were  forgotten  in  the  cheerful 
thought  that  each  of  us  was  all  here.  Having 
escaped  destruction  thus  far,  we  began  to  feel 
hopeful  that  we  could  avoid  coming  to  close 
quarters  with  the  cowardly  cougar.  In  fact, 
we  began  to  dare  to  hope  that  we  would  not 
even  see  one. 

168 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

Hunger  and  apprehension  somewhat  re- 
lieved, we  crept  into  our  wet  blankets,  only 
to  hear  our  guides  engaged  in  a  heated  argu- 
ment regarding  hydrophobia  skunks. 

"Pshaw!  There's  not  a  bit  of  danger  in  a 
place  like  this,"  Ambrose  was  saying. 

"Um-m!  Prob'ly  not;  but  it's  just  the 
kind  of  a  night  for  'em,"  Pat  declared.  "Re- 
member that  one  that  got  in  bed  with  me  on 
the  last  trip?" 

Bill  Vaughan  seemed  to  recall  the  incident 
clearly,  for  he  said: 

"I  sure  thought  you  was  a  dead  ox  that 
time,  Pat.  By  the  way,  that  feller  at  Fre- 
donia  that  was  bit  in  his  sleep,  hydrophobiated 
last  week.  He  was  foamin'  like  a  sody  foun- 
tain when  I  left.  I'd  rather  have  a  rattler  in 
my  blankets." 

"I'm  used  to  'em,"  Ambrose  yawned,  "and, 
anyhow,  they  don't  touch  me." 

Undoubtedly  this  Arizona  lion  roping  was 
great  sport.  We  knew  we  were  going  to 
enjoy  it — if  we  lived. 

"  Climb  a  wagon  wheel,  stranger!  I'm  about 
to  turn  these  son  of  a  guns  in." 

It  was  Pat's  voice  calling  us;  it  was  his  way 
169 


OH,  SHOOT! 

of  announcing  that  breakfast  was  served. 
Rain  was  still  falling;  the  bushes  were  wet 
and  the  rim  of  the  plateau,  far  above,  was 
obscured  by  clouds. 

We  uncovered  no  hydrophobia  skunks  when 
we  turned  back  our  blankets;  none  of  us  had 
been  bitten  during  the  night.  A  hurried  trip 
to  the  creek,  and  we  were  ready  for  the  worst 
that  Pat  had  to  offer. 

As  we  cracked  our  vitrified,  sour-dough 
door  knobs  and  sipped  our  tin  demi-tasses,  I 
inquired  of  him: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  inviting  us  to  climb 
a  wagon  wheel?" 

"It's  just  a  habit  I  got  into  when  I  was 
cooking  for  a  cow  outfit  in  New  Mexico,"  Pat 
explained.  ' '  Those  old  boys  was  rough  eaters, 
and  they  thought  well  of  their  grub.  One  day 
an  Eastern  feller  stopped  at  the  chuck  wagon 
for  dinner — nice  feller,  he  was,  as  nice  a  boy 
as  ever  I  saw — but  he  happened  to  an  accident. 
Our  men  came  drifting  in  at  meal  time  and 
ringed  around  the  wagon,  pawing  the  ground 
and  clashing  their  horns  and  bellering  for  their 
feed.  When  it  was  all  set,  I  yelled,  '  Come  and 
get  it  or  I'll  throw  it  out,'  and — do  you  know? 
— those  son  of  a  guns  like  to  tromped  that  poor 

170 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

stranger  to  death.  Ever  since  then  I  always 
tell  visitors  to  climb  a  wagon  wheel." 

Our  horses  had  fared  badly  during  the 
night,  for  there  was  no  grass  hereabout; 
hence  it  was  slow  work  threading  our  way  up 
the  canon.  We  had  supposed  that  the  worst 
of  our  climbing  was  over,  but,  as  usual,  we 
were  mistaken.  During  the  entire  trip,  I 
don't  think  we  ever  congratulated  ourselves 
on  any  subject  without  discovering  that  we 
had  been  premature.  Up  we  went  on  foot, 
creeping  over  bowlders,  pawing  our  way 
through  bramble  and  bush,  and  dragging  our 
horses  by  their  bridles,  until  we  reached  the 
white  limestone  cliff — that  tremendous  ribbon 
of  rock  which  bands  the  canon  so  prominently. 
Under  this  we  worked  our  way  along  a  narrow 
path  which  looks  out  over  twenty  miles  of 
vacant  space,  until  we  emerged  upon  a  narrow 
saddle  connecting  Powell's  Plateau  with  the 
main  mesa  of  the  Buckskin  Range. 

Powell's  Plateau  is  an  isolated  table-land, 
an  aerial  isthmus;  it  stands  forth  boldly,  like 
a  gigantic  layer  cake,  and  round  it  the 
Colorado  folds.  Its  sides  fall  away  perpen- 
dicularly, except  at  the  narrow  neck  which 
joins  it  to  the  North  Wall;  its  top  is  covered 

12  171 


OH,  SHOOT! 

with  a  parklike  growth  of  magnificent  pines. 
This  was  to  be  the  scene  of  our  adventures; 
here  Uncle  Jim  had  pitched  camp  and  was 
awaiting  us.  From  the  stories  we  had  heard, 
we  expected  to  flush  a  covey  of  cougar  at 
every  step  now,  and  so,  bearing  in  mind  that 
they  take  alarm  easily,  we  made  as  much 
noise  as  possible  and  managed  to  avoid  kicking 
any  out  of  the  grass. 

Uncle  Jim  keeps  his  horses  on  this  plateau, 
under  authority  of  a  grazing  permit  from  the 
government.  In  one  respect  at  least  it  is  an 
ideal  location,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  log 
fence  thrown  across  the  saddle  gives  him  a 
five-thousand-acre  pasture,  and  the  only  way 
his  stock  can  get  out  of  that  pasture  is  to  fall 
out.  His  horses  are  of  the  self-raising  variety, 
and  they  neither  require  nor  tolerate  any 
attention  from  outsiders.  When  he  needs 
one  he  takes  an  early  breakfast  and  a  stout 
lariat,  then  rides  through  the  woods  until  he 
discovers  one  which  he  fancies.  Thereupon 
he  lights  out  after  it,  and  runs  it  twenty  or 
thirty  miles,  or  until  it  has  to  stop  for  re- 
freshment. With  good  luck,  he  pens  it  into 
a  corral,  and  is  thus  enabled  to  get  within 
roping  distance.  This  accomplished,  the  real 

172 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

work  sets  in.  Uncle  Jim  has  spent  thirty 
years  in  the  Buckskins,  and  he  hopes  soon  to 
have  several  of  these  horses  broken  to  the 
saddle. 

A  committee  of  about  two  dozen  prominent 
mule-eared  deer  welcomed  us  when  we  stag- 
gered up  over  the  rim  proper  and  fell  ex- 
hausted. They  did  everything  except  shake 
hands  with  us;  then,  like  any  reception  com- 
mittee, they  hurried  away  to  attend  to  more 
interesting  business. 

It  was  sleeting  now,  and  inasmuch  as  we 
had  brought  nothing  but  light  clothing — 
Arizona  in  May  had  sounded  very  tropical  to 
us — our  teeth  chattered  merrily.  Uncle  Jim 
had  started  out  for  a  mule  load  of  snow,  but, 
hearing  the  music  of  our  ivory  castanets 
ringing  through  the  glades,  he  headed  us  off. 

"I  thought  you  boys  must  'a'  had  trouble," 
he  said,  when  we  told  him  about  our  delays  at 
the  Colorado  and  at  the  Shinumo.  "Kind  of 
a  rough  country  till  you  get  used  to  it.  Now, 
you  go  on  to  camp  and  take  a  good  rest  before 
supper,  while  I  hurry  and  get  my  snow;  it's 
only  about  five  miles.  I'm  all  out  of  water, 
and  there  ain't  a  creek  up  here." 

But  at  the  mention  of  food  we  whimpered 
173 


OH,  SHOOT! 

so  piteously  that  he  turned  back.  We  now 
guardedly  brought  up  the  subject  of  mountain 
lions,  only  to  receive  Uncle  Jim's  enthusiastic 
assurance  that  the  country  was  indeed  full  of 
them.  Fortunately  it  was  cold,  and  he  did 
not  notice  that  the  chattering  of  our  teeth 
increased. 

There  is  a  lot  of  work  wasted  in  camp  life. 
Late  that  afternoon  we  hunted  up  the  only 
remaining  snowdrift  on  the  plateau  and 
packed  in  two  hundred  pounds  of  the  cleanest 
of  it.  The  next  morning  we  awoke  to  find 
that  it  was  snowing  so  heavily  that  there  was 
enough  water  for  cooking  purposes  right  at 
hand — right  in  our  blankets,  as  a  matter  of 
fact.  It  was  useless  to  go  after  lions  in  such 
weather,  so  we  spent  the  day  getting  ac- 
quainted with  the  dogs  and  dodging  the  smoke 
from  a  sputtering  camp  fire,  the  while  Miller 
took  the  camera  apart,  dried  it,  and  undertook 
to  put  it  together  again.  It  was  quite  an  ex- 
hibition of  sleight  of  hand,  for  he  produced 
everything  out  of  that  box  from  a  wreath  of 
paper  flowers  to  a  live  rabbit.  When  the  ma- 
chine was  reassembled  he  still  had  a  hatful  of 
superfluous  parts. 

Uncle  Jim  Owen  is  a  famous  character  and 
174 


Q 

g 

!s 

o  < 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

much  has  been  written  about  him,  but,  next 
to  him,  the  most  important  and  interesting 
member  of  our  party  was  Pot-hound,  the  dean 
of  the  cougar  pack.  Pot  is  a  sad-eyed  old 
canine,  a  veteran  of  many  battles.  His  every- 
day dress  consists  of  a  haphazard  assortment 
of  liver-and- white  spots,  but  on  state  occasions 
he  wears,  in  addition  thereto,  a  silver-mounted 
collar  upon  which  is  engraved  his  name  and 
address,  together  with  the  following  epitaph: 

I  have  been  at  the  killing  of  450  lions. 

"Is  that  correct?"  we  inquired  of  Uncle 
Jim. 

"Um-m!  not  exactly,"  he  told  us.  "It's 
nearer  five  hundred  now.  Old  Pot  will  find 
cougar  where  there  ain't  any." 

Fred  and  I  exchanged  apprehensive  glances. 
Every  moment  it  looked  more  and  more  to  us 
as  if  we  were  in  for  a  meeting  with  a  mountain 
lion  in  spite  of  anything  we  might  do.  Nor 
could  we  poison  the  dog,  for  we  had  nothing 
with  us  more  deadly  than  Epsom  salts. 

Uncle  Jim  has  lived  alone  with  his  dogs 
much  of  his  time,  and  he  has  formed  a  habit  of 
conversing  with  them  upon  intimate  subjects. 
Flattered  by  our  attentions,  Pot-hound  had 

175 


OH,  SHOOT! 

edged  nearer  to  the  fire  than  etiquette  per- 
mitted, so  Uncle  Jim  pecked  the  veteran  on  the 
shins  with  his  poker,  saying,  mildly : 

"Now,  Pot,  you  get  away  from  here,  or  I'll 
knock  a  yelp  out  of  you  as  long  as  a  well 
rope."  Pot  retired  with  a  mournful  dignity 
and  seated  himself  with  the  rest  of  the  pack. 
"He's  a  powerful  good  dog,  but  these  boys 
have  spoiled  his  manners,"  Uncle  Jim  apolo- 
gized. "Yes,  he's  a  good  dog.  He  saved 
my  life  once."  We  had  already  learned  that 
Uncle  Jim  is  parsimonious  with  his  reminis- 
cences; therefore  we  maintained  a  polite  but 
inquisitive  silence.  "I  was  hunting  alone,  for 
the  government,  one  season,  and  my  horse 
throwed  me.  Broke  my  right  shoulder.  One 
day  Pot  and  another  dog  treed  a  lion,  and  I 
shot  it  left-handed.  It  fell  like  it  was  dead 
and  went  over  a  ledge,  with  them  after  it.  I 
left  my  gun  behind  and  went  down  to  skin 
him  out,  but  when  I  got  below  I  found  I'd 
only  creased  him.  The  dogs  had  him  ledged 
up  and  he  was  as  good  as  ever.  When  I 
showed  up  he  made  for  me.  He'd  of  got  me, 
too,  only  they  nailed  him.  Then  we  had  it. 
We  tore  up  a  lot  of  ground.  Every  time  the 
cougar  went  for  me  they'd  go  for  him,  and 

176 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

when  he'd  go  for  them  I'd  run  in.  I  tried  to 
kill  him  left-handed  with  a  rock,  but  I  didn't 
do  very  well  at  it.  I  was  plumb  tuckered  out 
when  a  cowboy  heard  us  rowin'  down  there  and 
rode  out  to  the  rim. 

'"Shall  I  shoot?'  he  hollered. 

"We  was  all  mixed  up  together,  but  I  yelled 
back,  'Gosh,  yes!' 

"He  was  all  of  three  hundred  yards  above 
us,  but  he  shot  that  cat  right  through  the 
heart.  Prettiest  shot  I  ever  saw.  Then  he 
put  up  his  gun  and  rode  away,  and  I  never  did 
know  who  he  was.  Funniest  thing  about  it, 
he  was  the  only  man  in  those  parts  except  me." 

Fred  and  Paul  and  I  discussed  this  story 
later. 

"It  beats  the  deuce  how  some  people  can 
lie,"  one  of  us  said,  and  the  others  agreed. 
We  were  not  referring  to  Uncle  Jim — his  story, 
we  knew,  was  true  in  every  detail — we  were 
thinking  of  "Buffalo"  Jones.  Roping  moun- 
tain lions  was  a  whole  lot  different  to  roping 
trunks. 

A  word  here  regarding  Uncle  Jim's  dogs. 
Not  only  are  they  his  helpers,  but  also  they  are 
his  friends,  and  he  treats  them  as  such.  He 
feeds  them  well,  no  matter  how  scanty  may 

177 


OH,  SHOOT! 

be  his  own  grub  supply;  he  sees  to  it  that  they 
have  a  tent  and  a  bed  as  good  or  better  than 
his.  But  while  he  is  a  considerate  master, 
he  is  likewise  a  disciplinarian,  and  woe  betide 
such  impetuous  members  of  the  pack  as,  in  a 
moment  of  abandon,  take  a  deer  track.  Uncle 
Jim  waits  patiently  until  they  return ;  then  he 
dismounts,  breaks  off  a  stout  limb,  and  cleans 
up.  The  welkin  rings  to  his  profane  chidings, 
to  their  agonized  excuses,  and  to  a  hollow 
drumming.  Pot-hound  never  runs  deer;  he 
knows  his  business  thoroughly,  and  when  his 
younger  colleagues  take  a  false  scent,  he,  too, 
sits  down  and  awaits  the  inevitable  reckoning. 
He  enjoys  that  reckoning;  it  pleases  him 
deeply,  and  he  makes  no  secret  of  the  fact. 
He  is  both  satisfied  and  refreshed  thereby,  and 
he  hunts  better  afterward. 

We  were  away  early  on  the  second  morning, 
and  before  we  had  followed  the  rim  for  a  mile 
our  dogs  gave  tongue  and  set  off  under  forced 
draught.  After  them  we  galloped  through 
thick,  low  cedars,  the  stiff  limbs  of  which  invited 
us  to  tarry  awhile.  Dodging  and  ducking  and 
twisting,  we  tried  to  keep  abreast  of  the  pack, 
and,  in  order  that  we  might  find  our  way  back, 
we  left  rags  of  flannel  shirting  here  and  there. 

178 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

We  plowed  through  thickets,  head  down,  eyes 
shut;  we  plunged  into  steep-sided  gullies 
where  our  horses  stood  on  their  hands;  then 
we  dismounted  and  toiled  out,  our  lungs 
bursting,  our  pores  streaming.  In  the  course 
of  this  mad  chase,  which  lasted  a  couple  of 
hours,  we  made  extensive  private  collections 
of  thorns,  cactus  spines,  and  Spanish  daggers. 
By  the  time  we  had  quilled  ourselves  over  like 
fretful  porcupines,  the  dogs  had  gotten  entirely 
out  of  hearing,  and  Ambrose  announced  that  it 
wasn't  a  lion,  after  all,  but  a  coyote.  Yes,  Pot 
would  sometimes  take  a  coyote  trail.  Fred 
and  I  breathed  easier.  We  got  out  of  our 
saddles,  rubbed  our  bruises,  sucked  our  cuts, 
and  dehorned  ourselves.  We  agreed  that  it 
was  a  fine,  free  life,  and  very  stimulating. 

A  long  time  later,  when  the  dogs  returned 
one  by  one,  they  were  eager  to  explain,  but  too 
tired  to  hunt  further,  so  we  returned  to  camp, 
greatly  heartened  by  the  realization  that  two 
uneventful  days  had  stolen  past,  during  which 
we  had  neither  treed  anything  nor  been  treed 
by  anything. 

In  order  that  our  method  of  hunting  may 
be  properly  understood,  it  is  necessary  briefly 
to  outline  the  habits  and  idiosyncrasies  of  our 

179 


OH,  SHOOT! 

quarry.  To  begin  with,  the  cougar  is  a  night 
feeder.  He  spends  his  days  in  meditation, 
holed  up  under  the  rim  in  some  convenient 
cave  where  he  can  enjoy  the  scenery  of  the 
canon,  but  at  night  he  comes  up,  grabs  himself 
a  deer,  and  has  a  party.  He  is  an  extravagant 
diner,  and  he  seldom  eats  more  than  the  heart 
and  lungs  of  his  prey.  Sometimes  he  covers 
his  kill  and  returns  the  next  night  for  a  cold 
snack,  but  not  always.  In  nearly  every 
brushy  draw  that  we  explored  we  found  the 
remains  of  these  midnight  supper  parties,  and 
Uncle  Jim  told  us  that  a  full-grown  mountain 
lion  will  destroy  annually  perhaps  two  hun- 
dred deer,  and  not  infrequently  domestic 
stock  as  well.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the 
government  and  local  cattlemen  employ  pro- 
fessional hunters  and  there  is  no  closed  season 
on  cats. 

Our  practice  was  to  leave  camp  soon  after 
daylight  and  rim  the  main  and  the  larger  side 
canons  until  afternoon,  when  the  sun  had  had 
time  to  dissipate  the  scent.  Rarely  indeed  is 
a  lion  brought  to  bay  on  the  level  top  of  the 
plateau,  for  the  dogs  have  to  go  over  and  rout 
him  out  of  his  sun  parlor,  and  almost  invari- 
ably he  flees  downward,  not  upward.  It  is 

180 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

the  part  of  the  hunter  to  follow  wherever  the 
chase  leads,  and,  inasmuch  as  a  cold  trail  may 
meander  for  many  miles,  in  and  out,  up  and 
down,  even  from  one  plateau  to  another  and 
back  again,  it  may  be  seen  that  the  sport  is 
not  a  languid  one  nor  one  well  suited  to  weak- 
lunged  sofa  weevils. 

This  section  of  Arizona  in  the  early  spring 
has  its  climatic  shortcomings,  but  they  are 
more  than  offset  by  the  ever-growing  wonder 
one  feels  at  the  stupendous  gorge.  It  is  im- 
possible to  become  accustomed  to  it,  for  it  is 
never  twice  the  same.  To  ride  its  edge  be- 
hind a  pack  of  dogs  combined  the  sensations 
of  hunting  and  of  aviation. 

Ambrose  had  determined  to  give  us  a  good 
time  if  it  killed  us,  and,  appreciating  the  worth 
of  his  intentions,  we  lacked  courage  to  tell  him 
that  any  animal  which  was  forced  to  endure 
the  sort  of  life  he  was  leading  us  deserved  to 
be  let  alone.  Therefore,  we  followed  him  day 
after  day. 

But  it  seemed  that  the  lions  had  broken 
camp  and  had  deserted  Powell's  Plateau,  a 
phenomenon  which  neither  Ambrose  nor  Uncle 
Jim  could  explain,  so  after  we  had  covered  it 
thoroughly  we  folded  our  tents  like  the  Arabs 

181 


OH,  SHOOT! 

and  stole  noisily  across  to  the  main  table-land. 
Anyone  who  has  ever  herded  a  pack  train  of 
wild  horses  will  know  why  we  did  not  steal 
silently. 

Here  again  we  resumed  our  daily  grind 
of  pleasure  until  our  saddle  galls,  brush 
cuts,  stone  bruises,  and  miscellaneous  injuries 
clothed  us  like  a  garment.  Such  portions  of 
us  as  were  without  pain  caused  us  serious 
apprehension. 

Then,  one  morning,  we  became  separated 
from  Ambrose  and  the  dogs.  It  was  a  warm, 
sunshiny  morning.  After  we  had  whispered 
his  name  several  times  and  after  he  had  failed 
to  answer,  we  decided  we  were  lost.  We  were 
intensely  cheered  by  this  discovery,  and  we 
fell  out  of  our  saddles,  stretched  out  on  the 
pine  needles,  and  proceeded  to  catch  up  on  a 
lot  of  sleep  which  was  coming  to  us.  We  slept 
for  a  long  time,  but  at  last  we  were  awakened 
by  distant  shouting,  which  we  recognized  as 
issuing  from  Ambrose.  Reluctantly  we 
mounted  and  rode  in  the  direction  of  his  voice. 
Ambrose  spied  us  at  a  distance  and  was  seized 
with  convulsions.  He  waved  his  arms;  he 
leaped  and  he  bounded;  he  gave  utterance  to 
hoarse  sounds  of  pain  and  of  fury. 

182 


^^fjj^^^^^* 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

"Where  have  you  boys  been?"  he  de- 
manded, huskily.  "  I  been  hunting  you  for  an 
hour  and  yelling  my  head  off." 

"We  were  looking  for  you.  We  thought 
you  were  lost,"  some  one  told  him. 

"Well,  tumble  out  and  unchap  yourselves. 
Here's  where  we  go  over."  For  the  first  time 
we  became  aware  of  a  faint  baying  far  below 
us.  "I  jumped  him  on  the  edge,  and  the  dogs 
took  him  right  down,"  Ambrose  explained. 
"They've  had  him  bayed  for  an  hour  or  two." 
While  he  was  talking,  he  had  whipped  the 
pack  ropes  from  the  camera  horse.  We  di- 
vested ourselves  of  coats,  chaps,  and  all  un- 
necessary clothing.  "They  can't  hold  him 
all  day;  he'll  get  cramps  and  have  to  jump 
sometime,"  Ambrose  grumbled.  "Next  time 
we  go  out,  I'm  going  to  lead  you  boys  on  a 
hackamore." 

In  view  of  the  character  of  the  descent 
ahead  of  us,  we  divided  our  load.  Ambrose 
flung  the  chains  and  leather  collar  destined 
for  our  quarry  into  his  rucksack;  Fred  took 
his  lariats  and  some  extra  film  cans;  while 
Miller  and  Vaughan  bore  the  camera  and  its 
heavy  tripod.  I,  as  gunman,  carried  my  rifle 
and  a  small  still  camera.  Thus  we  went  over. 

183 


OH,  SHOOT! 

The  canon  fell  away  at  our  feet,  clear  down 
to  the  red  sandstone ;  then  in  dizzy  leaps  and 
bounds  it  caromed  off  to  the  level  of  the  river 
a  mile  below.  A  horizontal  mile  isn't  much 
in  the  way  of  distance,  but  a  vertical  mile 
is  altogether  different.  To  quote  from  any 
real-estate  folder,  "it  must  be  seen  to  be 
appreciated." 

Down  we  went  through  the  brush,  like 
trapeze  performers;  then,  with  a  lariat,  we 
lowered  ourselves  and  our  paraphernalia  over 
the  first  ledge.  We  dislodged  a  great  deal  of 
good  building  material  as  we  hopped,  skipped, 
and  jumped  down  a  bare  slide;  we  started 
avalanches  of  paving  blocks,  crushed  stone, 
and  rubble,  the  larger  pieces  of  which  described 
beautiful  parabolas  and  took  out  small  trees 
in  their  courses.  Occasionally  they  struck 
other  large  stones  and  exploded  in  clouds  of 
dust.  One  could  not  but  wonder  how  far  he 
would  ricochet  if  he  lost  his  footing,  and  what 
kind  of  a  sound  he  would  make  when  he  ex- 
ploded. We  slid  through  slanting  juniper 
thickets  to  an  accompaniment  of  rending  gar- 
ments; we  coasted  across  patches  of  thorn 
brush  with  all  the  sensations  of  men  toboggan- 
ing over  barbed  wire.  And,  as  we  went,  the 

184 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

music  of  the  hounds  increased  until  the  cliffs 
reverberated  with  it.  We  crept  round  the 
Roman  nose  of  a  steep  bluff,  filtered  down 
through  an  abatis  of  gnarled  cedars,  and — 
Eureka! — there  was  our  lion. 

She  was  a  majestic  creature,  a  big  female; 
she  was  poised  gracefully  about  twenty  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  beneath  her  the  dogs 
were  boiling.  She  favored  us  with  a  grave 
and  dignified  stare,  then  resumed  her  obser- 
vation of  the  pack  below.  The  mountain  side 
was  pitched  at  the  angle  of  a  church  roof; 
nevertheless,  it  was  exceedingly  brushy,  and 
so  there  was  little  opportunity  for  photog- 
raphy. I  took  several  stills  of  her  while  we 
were  waiting  for  Miller  and  Vaughan  to  appear 
with  the  moving-picture  camera,  but  limbs 
obscured  the  view  and  the  result  was  nothing 
to  be  proud  of. 

"She  won't  stand  much  longer,"  Ambrose 
warned  us.  "Scatter  out  below,  and  be  care- 
ful she  don't  jump  on  you." 

I,  for  one,  was  perfectly  willing  to  exercise 
extreme  care  in  this  respect,  and  I  ventured 
the  suggestion  that  Ambrose  direct  his  warning 
to  her,  not  to  us. 

When  Miller  arrived  he  was  pretty  badly 
185 


OH,  SHOOT! 

battered  and  scratched,  but  the  camera  hadn't 
a  mark  on  it.  He  set  it  up  and  took  a  few 
feet. 

"It's  too  thick  to  rope  her  from  the  ground," 
Fred  declared. 

"Let  me  shoot  her,"  I  urged,  but  my  sug- 
gestion was  scorned.  Both  Fred  and  Ambrose 
assured  me  that  this  was  a  lion-busting,  not  a 
lion-shooting  exhibition. 

"She's  all  rested  up.  I  dunno's  she'll 
stand  for  us  to  climb  the  tree,"  Ambrose 
opined.  "But  we  can  try.  Well,  who  wants 
to  go  first?" 

Honesty  compels  me  to  state  that  Ambrose's 
invitation  presented  no  attractions  for  me.  I 
dare  say  I  could  bring  myself  to  rope  a  lion, 
a  very  young  and  playful  lion  with  short 
claws  and  milk  teeth,  although  I  would  much 
prefer  to  shake  the  tree  and  let  it  fall  out,  but 
this  animal  had  fangs  and  tusks  and  wisdom 
teeth.  Moreover,  it  had  done  nothing  to  me 
to  warrant  roping.  Then,  too,  I  reasoned, 
lions  were  scarce  and  there  was  no  certainty 
that  there  would  be  enough  to  go  around  if  I 
selfishly  monopolized  this  one.  Gently  but 
firmly  I  declined  the  proffered  honor.  When 
the  boys  became  insistent,  I  reminded  them 

186 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

that  I  had  come  along  to  protect  them,  to  set 
them  an  example  of  calm,  inflexible  courage. 
This  I  intended  to  do  if  I  had  to  stay  where  I 
was  until  my  legs  petrified  or  until  the  lioness 
died  of  old  age  on  that  limb. 

Doubtless  my  attitude  in  the  matter  shamed 
Fred,  for  he  volunteered. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  Miller  broke  in,  with 
more  animation  than  he  had  yet  shown.  "I 
want  to  get  a  close-up  of  this.  This  is  going 
to  be  good!"  He  brought  his  outfit  nearer  the 
tree,  spraddled  out  the  legs  of  his  tripod,  then 
stood  on  his  head  while  he  focused  with  mi- 
nutest care.  "I  don't  want  to  miss  a  thing," 
he  explained.  "Not  a  single  thing  except — 
the  noise  of  the  fight.  I  want  to  get  the  blood 
and — everything. ' ' 

"Better  hurry;  she's  getting  restless,"  Am- 
brose urged.  "I  guess  her  foot's  asleep." 

It  was  some  distance  to  the  lower  branches 
of  the  cedar;  therefore  he  gave  Fred  a  hand 
up.  Meanwhile,  I  reassured  both  of  them 
with  quotations  from  "Buffalo"  Jones's  lec- 
ture, also  by  the  statement  that  no  matter 
what  happened,  I  would  be  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity. 

Our  program  did  not  work  out  according  to 
is  187 


OH,  SHOOT! 

calculations.  Not  at  all.  Fred  got  into  the 
lower  branches  of  the  tree,  but  instead  of  re- 
treating, as  lions  are  supposed  to  do,  instead  of 
recoiling  in  terror  before  the  well-known  power 
of  the  human  eye,  this  one  opened  her  mouth 
as  if  to  get  her  throat  sprayed  and  came  down 
to  show  it  to  Fred.  She  came  with  a  rush, 
too. 

"Look  out!"  Ambrose  yelled,  whereupon 
Fred  peeled  the  lower  part  of  that  cedar  as 
bare  as  a  telegraph  pole.  For  a  few  feet  he 
and  the  lioness  were  neighbors;  they  came 
down  together,  face  to  face,  cheek  by  growl, 
as  it  were,  leaving  a  trail  of  charred  wood  and 
smoke  above  them.  Then,  as  the  increasing 
force  of  gravitation  made  itself  felt,  Fred 
gained  on  her.  Finding  that  she  could  not 
outrun  a  falling  body,  the  cougar  scrambled 
out  a  projecting  bough  and  launched  herself 
into  space.  Either  I  looked  soft  and  springy 
to  her  or  my  hair  resembled  a  bunch  of  thick 
grass  in  which  she  thought  she  could  find  con- 
cealment— anyhow,  she  selected  me  as  a 
leaping-pad.  Fortunately  she  miscalculated, 
and  fell  perhaps  forty  feet  below  the  tree,  but 
much  nearer  me.  She  was  off  like  a  flash,  with 
canine  pandemonium  at  her  heels.  As  she 

188 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

passed  Vaughan,  he  roped  at  her  and  made  a 
perfect  catch — of  a  juniper  bush  back  of  him. 

"Come  on,  boys;  we  got  to  step  on  her 
tail!"  Ambrose  yelled.  And  away  we  dashed. 

I  came  to  rest  upon  the  rim  of  a  moderately 
high  precipice  in  time  to  find  that  some  of  the 
dogs  had  missed  the  trail.  The  lioness  had 
gone  over  at  a  favorable  spot,  but  the  younger 
members  of  the  pack  had  raced  along  the  ledge 
for  some  distance  before  discovering  their 
mistake.  Old  Pot-hound,  however,  had  not 
been  so  easily  fooled;  he  had  kept  his  nose  to 
the  ground  and  had  taken  nothing  for  granted. 
He,  too,  had  gone  over,  and  was  now  giving 
tongue  below  us  and  back  to  our  right.  With 
frantic  wails,  the  young  hounds  answered  him 
and  leaped  blindly.  They  struck  the  slope 
below  and  in  a  clatter  of  gravel  fled  out  of 
sight. 

There  was  no  time  to  waste.  Again  we  re- 
peated our  first  mad  descent  until  we  fetched 
up  at  the  white  limestone,  which  dropped 
sheer  for  perhaps  three  hundred  feet.  Along 
the  top  of  this  we  crashed  for  half  a  mile  until 
we  came  up  with  our  prey.  There  were  no 
trees  here;  she  had  come  to  bay  on  a  huge 
white  bowlder.  She  was  lashing  her  sides  and 

189 


OH,  SHOOT! 

snarling  soundlessly,  and  she  presented  a  mag- 
nificent sight  outlined  against  the  void  be- 
yond. By  leaping  high,  the  dogs  could  reach 
her  feet,  and  she  was  stepping  about  gingerly 
to  avoid  their  attacks.  Somewhere  in  the 
brush  above,  Miller  and  Vaughan  were  coming 
with  the  camera  and  tripod. 

"Lemme  shoot  her!"  I  gasped  once  more, 
but  Ambrose  sternly  declined  to  entertain 
such  a  thing. 

"When  the  boys  get  set  up,"  he  wheezed, 
"we'll  snatch  her  off  that  rock  in  jig  time. 
It  '11  make  some  picture." 

I  obediently  uncocked  my  rifle  and  cocked 
my  still  camera,  but  just  as  I  raised  it  she 
once  again  took  to  flight. 

I  favored  Ambrose  with  a  loud  horse  laugh 
and  patted  my  Winchester. 

"This  is  the  thing,"  I  declared,  "to  hunt 
lions  with.  Now  we've  lost  her." 

So  it  seemed,  for  the  chase  led  back  along  the 
top  of  the  limestone,  then  descended  a  break 
in  the  cliff.  At  no  time  could  we  see  either 
the  lioness  or  the  dogs,  but  the  strain  of  our 
hound  orchestra  kept  us  apprised  of  her  gen- 
eral whereabouts.  Far  below  us  lay  the  wide 
shelf  formed  by  the  "Tonto  red."  It  was 

190 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

heavily  overgrown  and  comparatively  level — 
that  is,  it  did  not  slant  at  an  angle  of  more 
than  forty-five  degrees.  Here  the  quarry 
bayed  for  a  third  time,  and  when  we  heard  the 
new  note  in  that  chorus  of  canine  frenzy, 
Ambrose  gaily  cried : 

"Going  down!    All  aboard!" 

But  this  was  a  different  proposition  to  the 
other  two  descents.  No  one  but  lion  hunters 
tackle  the  white  limestone,  and  when  our 
camera  man  craned  his  neck  over  the  edge  of 
the  abyss  he  behaved  exactly  like  that  horse 
at  the  crossing  of  the  Colorado — he  laid  back 
his  ears  and  balked.  It  seemed  an  impossible 
task  to  take  a  camera  in  and  out  of  such  a 
place,  so  we  sent  him  and  Vaughan  back  up  the 
long  climb  to  the  plateau,  while  Ambrose, 
Fred,  and  I  nerved  ourselves  to  go  down  and 
administer  the  coup  de  grdce — an  undertaking 
which  called  for  prayer  and  meditation. 

When  we  had  reached  the  red  sandstone, 
Ambrose  cautioned  us  to  go  quietly,  for,  said  he : 

"These  she  cats  won't  stand.  If  she  makes 
another  break  we'll  have  to  follow  her  over 
the  red,  and  we'll  be  old  men  before  we  can 
climb  out." 

We  did  our  best  to  follow  instructions,  but 
191 


OH,  SHOOT! 

the  going  was  steep  and  treacherous,  and  we 
made  more  noise  than  three  wooden-legged 
painters  on  a  piazza  roof.  Probably  the  furi- 
ous barking  of  the  dogs  drowned  the  sounds  of 
our  approach,  for  the  lioness  held  her  stand. 

She  was  in  a  thick,  low-spreading  cedar,  and 
three  of  the  dogs  were  in  the  tree  with  her. 
It  would  have  made  a  good  picture,  but  here 
again  it  would  have  taken  an  X-ray  to  pene- 
trate the  cover.  Governor,  a  wicked,  white- 
eyed  Siberian  wolfhound,  had  worked  his  way 
up  to  where  he  could  almost  nip  the  cougar's 
feet,  while  Tub  and  Fanny,  a  young  matron 
who  had  left  a  family  of  nursing  children  in 
camp,  urged  him  to  be  game  and  do  so. 

"You  got  to  kill  her  cold,  the  first  shot,  or 
she'll  get  every  dog  in  the  pack,"  Ambrose 
whispered. 

It  was  pretty  close  work,  for  the  animal's 
neck  was  hidden,  and  I  could  only  make  out  a 
part  of  one  tawny  shoulder. 

At  the  crack  of  the  gun,  the  lioness  was 
gone,  and  so  was  Ambrose.  There  came  a 
savage  chorus  of  yelps,  growls,  howls,  and  ex- 
clamations from  the  dogs,  then  a  furious 
crashing  in  the  undergrowth.  As  I  ran  past 
the  cedar,  Tub  was  yelling  murder  at  the  top 

192 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

of  his  voice  and  holding  up  a  limp  fore  leg> 
while,  securely  wedged  in  a  narrow  fork  over- 
head, Fanny  appeared  to  be  taking  a  swim- 
ming lesson,  meanwhile  uttering  one  ear- 
splitting  shriek  upon  another. 

Her  cries  were  not  of  agony,  as  I  momen- 
tarily feared,  nor  was  Tub's  injury  the  result 
of  a  blow  from  the  lioness.  He  had  wrenched 
his  leg,  and  Fanny — well,  Fanny's  figure  was 
not  what  it  had  been  before  those  puppies 
came;  hence  her  mishap. 

No;  the  deer-devouring  career  of  that 
cougar  had  ended  in  the  very  act  of  kicking 
off  that  limb,  and  the  dogs  were  worrying  her 
when  we  arrived.  We  allowed  them  to  think 
they  had  done  the  killing,  which,  I  learned,  is 
a  part  of  the  game. 

"We  got  her  easy,  didn't  we?"  Ambrose 
said,  wiping  the  sweat  out  of  his  eyes.  "We'll 
top  out  before  dark,  if  we  hurry." 

"I  won't,"  Fred  firmly  declared,  "unless  I 
find  the  rest  of  my  pants  on  the  way  up."  He 
backed  into  a  thick  brush  clump,  where  he 
blushed  a  dull  brick  red  every  time  we  looked 
at  him.  "What  a  fellow  needs  for  this  busi- 
jness,"  said  he,  "  is  a  pair  of  sole-leather  running 
tights." 


OH,  SHOOT! 

It  was  a  long  pull  back  up  the  canon  side; 
the  green  hide  was  heavy,  and  we  left  a  number 
of  dried-up  springs  in  our  wake.  When  we 
finally  rose  over  the  rim  we  found  Miller  in 
low  spirits,  but  loud  in  his  opinion  of  lions  and 
lion  hunters. 

"You  boys  move  too  fast  for  good  pictures," 
he  complained.  "Why,  I  didn't  get  fifteen 
feet  of  Fred  in  that  tree !  You  must  take  your 
time.  Stick!  When  I  get  you  right,  stick! 
Gee!  I'll  be  a  joke  at  the  Screen  Club  if  this 
keeps  up !  You  guys  will  ruin  my  reputation. ' ' 

It  was  Fred's  turn  to  be  indignant. 

"Didn't  I  stick?"  he  demanded.  "I  was 
twenty  minutes  climbing  down  out  of  that 
tree." 

"Fifteen  feet,"  Miller  declared.  " Less  than 
a  second.  That's  how  you  stuck!  Well, 
we're  going  to  rehearse  the  next  stunt.  You 
boys  are  going  to  go  down  and  rope  the  next 
lion  we  find  and  bring  him  out.  I'll  stay  up 
here  and  look  for  a  nice  open  tree  where  the 
light  is  right;  then  we'll  untie  him,  put  him 
up  it,  and  I'll  get  a  real  picture.  You  can 
take  turns  in  front  of  the  machine;  you 
can  rope  him  till  he's  ragged.  Only,  MOVE 

SLOW." 

194 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

"Pack  out  a  live  lion?"  I  inquired,  in  dis- 
may. "  Out  ot— there?" 

1 '  Sure !    You're  a  big,  strong  guy . ' ' 

For  some  unaccountable  reason  Ambrose 
seconded  this  fantastic  idea.  He  seconded  it 
with  enthusiasm. 

"We'll  do  that  very  little  thing!"  he  cried. 

It  is  true  I  am  big  and  strong,  but  my 
strength  was  not  equal  to  this  unfeeling  pro- 
posal. I  became  giddy  and  my  knees  gave 
way.  When  I  revived,  some  one  had  propped 
Fred  against  a  tree  and  was  holding  snow  to 
his  temples. 

Alas,  the  power  of  an  evil  suggestion!  It 
recurs.  It  grows  until  it  obsesses  the  mind  of 
its  unhappy  victim.  This  phenomenon,  I  am 
told,  accounts  for  much  crime.  That  extrava- 
gant proposal  to  subdue  a  wild  lion  and  to 
take  it  out  of  the  canon  alive  preyed  upon  us. 
It  was  preposterous,  absurd ;  nevertheless,  we 
could  not  escape  it,  once  it  had  taken  root  in 
our  brains.  The  very  monstrosity  of  the  idea 
rendered  it  hideously  fascinating,  and  we  were 
drawn  to  it  as  moths  are  drawn  to  a  flame. 
We  had  come  to  Arizona  to  rest  and  to  re- 
cuperate; we  didn't  want  to  pack  anything 
into  or  out  of  any  canon,  much  less  this  one. 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Very  much  less  did  we  desire  to  have  dealings 
of  such  a  nature  with  a  live  and  peevish  lion. 
We  had  packed  one  empty  lion-skin  out,  and 
we  were  not  the  same  men  we  had  been.  To 
think  of  scaling  those  cliffs  with  another  skin 
stuffed  and  mounted  with  the  live,  pulsating, 
indignant  carcass  of  its  original  owner  caused 
our  joints  to  complain  and  our  veins  to  run 
water.  We  lost  much  sleep  over  the  pos- 
sibility that  we  might  be  induced  to  tackle 
such  a  horrid  undertaking;  our  appetites 
disappeared;  we  became  irritable  and  weakly 
hysterical.  We  awoke  in  the  stilly  hours 
with  frightened  cries,  for  our  dreams  were 
peopled  with  saber-toothed  nightmares.  But 
all  the  time  we  knew  that  we  were  going  to  do 
it,  for  it  takes  courage  to  be  a  coward,  and 
we  were  just  ordinary,  unheroic  citizens. 

During  the  next  few  days  we  left  Miller  in 
camp  while  we  hunted — with  encouraging  ill 
fortune.  We  hunted  in  every  kind  of  weather, 
all  of  which  was  bad.  We  hunted  the  high  rim ; 
then  we  went  below  and  hunted  the  red  sand- 
stone. We  hunted  in  rain,  in  fog,  and  in  snow. 
We  got  lost,  and  for  long  hours  we  wandered 
through  the  forests,  wet,  hungry,  miserable, 
buoyed  up  only  by  the  realization  that  if  we 

196 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

perished  thus  we  would  not  have  to  rope  a  live 
lion  and  lug  it  out  of  the  canon.  But  invariably 
we  got  safely  back  to  camp.  Our  good  fortune 
in  this  respect  became  monotonous. 

Let  me  state,  in  passing,  that  it  is  an  experi- 
ence to  rim  the  Grand  Canon  in  a  fog.  The 
world  is  ghostly  and  unreal;  objects  are  mag- 
nified ;  gnarled  trees  and  queer  rock  formations 
assume  the  likeness  of  prehistoric  monsters, 
and  one  has  no  more  sense  of  direction  than  a 
jellyfish.  There  is  a  constant  temptation  to 
ride  off  into  space,  and  no  little  danger  of 
doing  so,  for  the  earth's  surface  breaks  away 
as  if  it  had  been  removed  by  a  cleaver,  and 
when  the  canon  is  bank-full  of  thick  vapors, 
it  looks  as  inviting  as  a  feather  bed.  One 
skirts  it  with  the  sensations  of  riding  the 
clouds  on  a  winged  steed.  More  than  ever  is 
one  amazed  to  learn  how  far  the  off  side  of  a 
horse  sticks  out,  and  when  one's  animal  stum- 
bles, one  involuntarily  bites  one's  left  ven- 
tricle, which  in  itself  has  an  element  of  danger 
in  it.  Occasionally  the  mist  will  thin  until, 
far  below,  away  down  between  the  horse's  feet, 
slim  spruce-tops  are  dimly  discernible;  again 
it  will  close  like  smothery  curtains,  through 
which  one  must  blindly  push. 

197 


OH,  SHOOT! 

On  one  such  day  we  were  drying  out  around 
a  fire,  the  dogs  were  shivering  wretchedly,  huge 
wet  snowflakes  were  coating  us  like  goose 
feathers,  when  Ambrose  voiced  the  fear  that 
we  boys  were  not  getting  our  money's  worth 
out  of  the  trip.  It  was  his  idea  that  we  should 
leave  camp  much  earlier,  and  thereby  have 
more  time  in  which  to  enjoy  ourselves.  We 
wrung  out  our  mittens,  clawed  the  accumu- 
lated snow  from  the  backs  of  our  necks,  and 
through  chattering  teeth  assured  him  that  any 
more  enjoyment  of  this  sort  would  probably 
give  us  pneumonia.  But  he  was  set.  When 
we  considered  the  matter,  we  decided  that 
pneumonia  wasn't  so  bad,  after  all.  Conges- 
tion, fever,  delirium  had  the  edge  on  mutila- 
tion at  the  hands  of  a  cougar;  therefore  we 
offered  no  strenuous  objection  when  the  matter 
was  put  up  to  Uncle  Jim. 

Uncle  Jim  is  a  thorough  man,  and  literal  to 
a  fault.  He  had  us  out  the  next  morning  at 
half  past  two,  and  he  kept  us  awake  with  a 
sharp  stick  until  we  had  swallowed  our  break- 
fast. To  amuse  us  and  to  occupy  our  minds, 
he  told  us  a  story. 

"There's  a  trade  rat  around  camp — "  he 
began,  but  was  interrupted. 

198 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

"What's  a  trade  rat?"  some  one  poison- 
ously  inquired. 

' '  He's  a  kind  of  rat  that  never  takes  anything 
without  leaving  something  in  its  place — may- 
be nothing  more  than  a  twig  or  a  pebble,  but 
something.  You'll  see  their  nests  all  over  this 
country.  I  had  a  party  out  once,  and  there 
was  a  woman  in  it.  One  day  she  lost  a  pair 
of  gloves.  We  couldn't  find  'em  any  place, 
and  the  next  night  she  lost  her  pocketbook 
with  all  her  change  in  it.  I  told  her  a  trade 
rat  probably  had  it,  but  she  allowed  a  trade 
cowboy  had  probably  done  the  trick.  I  saw 
she  didn't  believe  there  was  any  such  rats, 
and  she  went  home  thinking  one  of  my  boys 
had  robbed  her.  It  made  me  feel  awful  bad. 

"The  next  year  I  camped  in  that  very  place, 
and  in  the  morning  I  found  one  of  those  gloves 
in  the  grub  box  and  one  of  my  spoons  gone.  I 
put  Pot-hound  on  the  trail — he'll  track  any- 
thing I  tell  him  to — and  he  run  Mr.  Rat  down 
in  short  order.  In  the  nest  I  found  that 
other  glove  and  the  lady's  pocketbook,  along 
with  a  lot  of  table  silver  I'd  lost  at  odd  times. 
I  sent  the  pocketbook  to  the  lady,  but  I  bet 
she  thinks  I'd  ought  to  pay  interest  for  the 
time  I  used  her  money." 

199 


OH,  SHOOT! 

We  left  camp  at  four  o'clock,  while  it  was 
still  so  dark  that  a  man  needed  a  lantern  to 
blow  his  nose,  and  at  nine  o'clock  Pot-hound 
let  out  a  deep  boom.  The  young  dogs  nearly 
upset  him  in  their  desire  to  corroborate  his 
discovery  and  to  split  credit  for  it.  It  was  a 
cold  trail,  however,  and  they  quickly  overran 
it.  After  this  false  start  they  returned  for 
a  consultation ;  then  they  followed  the  veteran, 
who  set  off  at  a  moderate  pace.  Pot  will  not 
be  hurried,  nor  will  he  permit  himself  to  be 
discouraged. 

"It's  a  lion,"  Ambrose  announced,  "and 
he's  in  the  game  bag." 

During  the  next  three  hours  we  witnessed 
the  most  wonderful,  the  most  uncanny  ex- 
hibition of  canine  sagacity  I  have  ever  beheld. 
The  trail  was  evidently  hours  old,  and  it  had 
been  made  by  a  hunting  cougar,  for  it  me- 
andered aimlessly.  It  ran  into  and  out  of 
draws;  it  took  us  far  back  into  the  forest, 
then  out  again  to  the  edge  of  the  chasm. 

Meanwhile,  the  sun  was  bright,  the  heat 
was  intense,  and  the  scent  was  becoming  ever 
more  difficult  to  follow.  We  sat  our  horses 
for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  time 
while  the  dogs  worked  a  space  no  larger  than 

200 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

a  room.  They  would  smell  every  leaf,  every 
pine  cone,  every  twig;  they  would  rear  up  and 
smell  both  sides  of  overhanging  branches  for 
the  full  length;  they  would  lip  the  ground 
until  their  tongues  were  black.  Occasionally 
they  would  break  away  and  make  wide  circles, 
only  to  return  and  take  up  the  scent  where 
they  had  lost  it,  working  out  the  trail  with  the 
care  of  scientists. 

After  a  couple  of  hours,  the  younger  ones 
gave  up  and  lay  down,  baffled,  exhausted ;  but 
Pot-hound  persevered  in  his  investigations,  for 
all  the  world  like  some  patient  old  professor  in 
a  laboratory.  By  this  time  he  could  detect 
the  scent  only  in  shady  places,  and  there  but 
faintly.  He  would  give  tongue  at  the  base  of 
a  tree,  then  trot  across  one  open  space  after 
another  until  he  caught  it  again.  He  pos- 
sesses the  hunting  instinct  raised  to  the  nth 
degree  of  refinement,  and  I  seriously  doubt  if 
any  other  animal  on  this  continent  could  have 
duplicated  his  performance. 

We  had  skirted  a  deep  canon  which  ran 
back  into  the  mesa,  when  Ambrose  said: 

"  There's  a  spring  down  yonder.  Let's  take 
the  dogs  under  and  give  them  a  drink.  May- 
be they'll  strike  the  trail  down  there." 

201 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Accordingly,  we  tied  our  horses  and  de- 
scended. We  found  the  water — and  con- 
sumed most  of  it — then  Ambrose  led  the  pack 
down  the  gulch  on  a  fruitless  quest.  He 
returned  with  the  regretful  announcement 
that  all  bets  were  off  and  we'd  better  go  home. 

Up  we  climbed  and  remounted  our  horses. 
But,  although  the  young  dogs  were  delighted 
to  call  this  a  day's  work,  Pot  refused  to  leave. 
Ambrose  called  him,  but  the  old  fellow  was 
once  more  meandering  from  shade  to  shade, 
occasionally  giving  voice  to  his  announcement 
that  the  king  had  passed  this  way.  We 
waited.  Eventually  the  rest  of  the  pack  rose 
stiffly  and  followed  him,  but  with  expressions 
of  resignation  which  made  it  plain  that  they 
considered  Pot  a  stubborn  old  fool  who  had 
to  be  humored. 

Ambrose  held  his  sombrero  to  his  ear. 
There  came  a  faint  soprano  yelp  from  Fanny, 
then  a  doubtful  boom  from  Governor;  later, 
we  heard  a  distant  commotion  under  the  rim. 
Ambrose  replaced  his  hat. 

"Come  on,  boys,"  said  he;  "they've  treed 
him!" 

Away  we  galloped,  and  when  we  dis- 
mounted, a  few  moments  later,  a  blood-stir- 

202 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

ring  chorus  rose  from  beneath  our  feet,  and  we 
could  see  the  dogs  leaping  at  the  base  of  a  tall 
pine  far  below. 

"No  rough  stuff  this  time,"  Ambrose 
cautioned,  as  we  went  crashing  downward. 
"We're  going  to  rope,  throw,  and  brand  this 
bird,  and  bring  him  out  alive." 

This  cougar  looked  like  the  twin  sister  of 
the  other  one.  She,  too,  was  poised  in  the 
lower  branches  of  her  tree,  and  peering  curi- 
ously down  at  the  dogs  when  we  arrived. 
Once  again  we  took  positions  where  we  could 
ease  her  fall  in  case  she  decided  to  jump. 

Ambrose,  with  his  lariat  in  his  teeth,  went 
up  to  call,  but  as  he  mounted  toward  her  the 
lioness  retreated.  After  some  trouble  he 
managed  to  get  above  her,  but  as  he  uncoiled 
his  rope  she  quitted  her  position  and  soared 
outward  in  a  mighty  leap. 

She  hit  so  hard  that  she  bounced,  but  away 
she  darted,  with  the  dogs  at  her  tail  and  with 
us  rampaging  after.  A  quarter-of-a-mile  run 
and  we  found  her  rocking  comfortably  in  a 
brushy  oak.  The  branches  hid  her  body,  but 
her  head  protruded  from  the  very  top.  Hur- 
riedly we  cut  a  pole  for  Ambrose,  but  it  was 
not  a  good  pole-growing  neighborhood  and 

14  2°3 


OH,  SHOOT! 

the  staff  we  fashioned  was  clumsy.  With  it 
he  undertook  to  place  a  loop  over  the  animal's 
neck.  It  would  seem  to  be  a  simple  matter 
to  snare  a  lion  under  such  conditions,  but  it  is 
not.  When  the  noose  neared  her  head,  the 
cougar  tucked  her  ears  back  out  of  the  way 
and  bit  the  pole  in  two.  While  Ambrose  per- 
sisted patiently  in  his  enterprise,  Fred  climbed 
to  a  bowlder  where  he  could  get  elbow  room 
and  began  to  throw  at  her.  She  was  just  out 
of  reach  of  his  rope,  however,  and  his  casts 
fell  a  foot  or  two  short.  He  built  loop  after 
loop  and  sailed  them  up,  only  to  have  them 
settle  a  trifle  below  her.  After  each  cast  she 
seized  the  rope  in  her  teeth;  whereupon  there 
ensued  a  tug  of  war.  It  was  a  pretty  game  to 
watch. 

Failing  in  these  attempts,  Fred  climbed  a 
neighboring  oak,  the  while  we  engaged  our 
quarry's  attention,  and  it  began  to  look  as  if 
the  affair  were  about  over.  But  as  he  broke 
a  limb  to  accommodate  his  cast,  she  looked 
over  her  shoulder  straight  into  his  countenance 
and  decided  the  neighborhood  was  becoming 
uncomfortably  crowded. 

Justice  to  that  cougar  compels  me  to  say 
that  Fred  was  not  nice  to  look  upon.  It  was 

204 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

a  hot  day;  he  was  sweaty  and  his  beard  was 
stiff,  but  personally  I  could  see  nothing  in  his 
appearance  that  would  have  caused  me  to  kick 
off  the  whole  top  of  a  tree.  Of  course,  I  know 
Fred  and  I  like  him.  I  am  prejudiced  in  his 
favor.  I  have  seen  him  when  he  looked  even 
worse  than  at  that  moment;  but  lions  do  not 
make  friends  easily  and  there  was  something 
about  him  that  this  one  did  not  care  for. 
How  she  escaped  a  broken  collar  bone  or  a 
sprained  ankle  I  don't  know,  for  she  lit  with 
a  terrible  flop. 

Back  we  scuttled,  over  the  very  trail  we  had 
just  covered.  We  knew  it  to  be  the  same  trail, 
for  there  were  familiar  pieces  of  cuticle  on  the 
brush,  and  the  rocks  gouged  us,  the  thorns 
ripped  us  in  precisely  the  same  places  they  had 
gouged  and  ripped  us  en  route  hereto.  The 
cougar  bayed  in  the  very  pine  tree  from  which 
we  had  dislodged  her  in  the  first  place,  and 
we  realized  that  our  trip  to  the  oak  and  back 
had  been  a  complete  waste  of  time,  effort,  and 
epidermis.  It  had  been  a  perfectly  senseless 
and  futile  performance,  and  we  told  the  lion- 
ess so. 

Once  more  we  climbed  that  tree,  and  once 
more  she  jumped.  Doubtless  she  intended  to 

205 


OH,  SHOOT! 

hotfoot  it  back  to  her  acorn  bower,  thence 
back  here,  repeating  the  journey  over  and  over 
until  monotony  wore  us  down  or  until  those 
thorns  and  brambles  reduced  us  to  harmless 
shreds.  But  Governor,  the  Siberian  wolf- 
hound, spoiled  her  pretty  little  program.  He 
leaped  upon  her  back,  sank  his  incisors  into 
her  neck,  and  enjoyed  a  free  ride  until  he  was 
scraped  off. 

I  have  never  had  a  dog  bite  the  back  of  my 
neck,  but  I  am  ticklish,  and  I  know  I  should 
resent  it  as  bitterly  as  did  our  lioness.  Having 
rid  herself  of  her  passenger,  she  plunged 
straight  down  the  slope,  and  the  pack  swept 
after  her. 

We  men  sat  down  and  groaned.  It  was 
then  and  still  is  my  belief  that  a  rope  is  a 
darned  inconclusive  weapon  with  which  to 
hunt  wild  animals.  A  slippery-elm  club  offers 
far  better  terminal  facilities. 

By  this  time  those  lariats  and  leather 
collars  and  log  chains  which  we  had  pains- 
takingly carried  back  and  forth  had  come  to 
weigh  as  much  as  a  collection  of  anvils,  for 
in  such  a  country  a  quill  toothpick  will  tax  a 
man's  endurance. 

"You  g-go  ahead  and — keep  her  mind  oc- 
206 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

cupied,"  we  told  Ambrose.  "We'll  bring  the 
junk." 

Ambrose  acted  upon  this  suggestion,  and 
went  bounding  down  the  hillside  with  a  fine, 
free,  double-action  movement.  When  we  had 
crashed  our  way  down,  then  clawed  our  way 
up  the  opposite  side  of  the  gulch,  we  found 
him  trying  to  convince  the  lioness  that  his 
loop  was  perfectly  painless  and  would  not 
harm  her  in  the  least. 

"It's  no  go!"  he  yelled,  above  the  din  of  the 
dogs.  "She's  et  up  every  pole  I've  cut!" 

As  a  variation  to  our  former  practice,  both 
he  and  Fred  went  up  this  tree  together,  and 
while  Fred  diverted  the  animal's  attention  by 
sundry  devices,  Ambrose  at  last  succeeded  in 
slipping  a  loop  over  the  cougar's  head.  Oddly 
enough,  she  paid  no  heed  whatever  to  the  rope, 
once  it  was  in  place.  Fred  took  the  end  of  it 
and  cautiously  drew  it  snug,  while  Ambrose 
rigged  a  second  snare  on  the  end  of  his  pole 
and  repeated  his  previous  maneuver.  We  let 
out  a  feeble,  apprehensive  cheer  to  celebrate 
our  daring  capture. 

"Now  then,  let's  stretch  her,"  Ambrose 
suggested. 

This  was  no  difficult  operation,  although 
207 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Fred  somewhat  complicated  it  by  falling  back- 
ward out  of  the  tree  and  jerking  the  lioness 
from  her  perch.  Fortunately,  however,  she 
fell  over  a  limb,  the  rope  held,  and  she  re- 
mained suspended.  There  was  a  momentary 
question  whether  she  would  come  down  and 
take  Fred  up  or  vice  versa,  but  Ambrose 
wrapped  his  legs  round  his  perch  and  hung 
grimly  to  the  other  lariat.  Meanwhile,  our 
victim  was  spinning  like  a  gyroscope,  and 
turning  aerial  handsprings  until  the  whole 
tree  shook.  She  was  livelier  than  a  tarpon, 
and  we  were  glad  our  tackle  was  heavy. 

Hurriedly  we  tied  up  the  dogs,  then  lowered 
the  lioness.  Now,  the  air  at  eight  thousand 
feet  is  rare,  but  our  hangman's  nooses  at  her 
throat  had  rendered  it  rarer  still,  and  she  was 
limp  when  we  let  her  down.  She  had  fainted ; 
hence  it  took  but  an  instant  to  tie  her  feet. 
Even  as  the  last  knot  was  drawn,  however,  she 
recovered,  and  she  recovered  with  a  rush. 
Her  eyelids  did  not  flutter;  she  did  not  heave 
a  long  hesitating  sigh  and  say,  "Where  am  I? " 

Nothing  like  that.  She  knew  where  she 
was  and  she  knew  where  I  was — or  where  I 
had  been  a  minute  fraction  of  a  second 
previously. 

208 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

I  left  those  trousers  on  the  plateau  when  I 
came  home,  for  they  were  of  no  further  prac- 
tical value  and  I  had  a  pair  of  chaps. 

It  is  easier  to  muzzle  than  to  rope  a  cougar. 
You  merely  cut  a  short,  stout  stick  and  pre- 
sent it  gingerly.  The  cougar  seizes  it — and 
one  or  more  of  your  fingers — then  you  bind 
the  stick  in  place  with  a  few  deft  turns  of 
rope  and  bind  your  fingers  back  where  they 
belong  with  whatever  is  handy. 

Ambrose  wore  a  grin  to  match  that  of  the 
gagged  cougar. 

1 '  This  is  the  life ! "  he  said,  joyously.  ' '  Now 
all  we  got  to  do  is  pack  her  out." 

That  was  all.  By  lying  flat  on  our  backs 
we  could  manage  to  look  up  to  the  rim,  but  it 
was  then  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and 
we  had  not  eaten  for  twelve  hours.  Camp 
was  perhaps  eight  miles  distant.  Some  one 
suggested  leaving  the  lioness  chained  to  this 
tree  for  the  night,  but  Ambrose  would  not 
hear  of  it. 

"If  we  get  her  out  now,  she'll  be  fresh  as  a 
daisy  to-morrow.  We  can  get  her  out  all 
right  if  we  handle  her  easy  and  don't  bust  her 
corners." 

Accordingly,  we  cut  a  pole  and  threaded  the 
209 


OH,  SHOOT! 

lioness  upon  it.  To  climb  the  side  of  the 
Grand  Canon  with  a  stout  sapling  on  your 
shoulder  is  no  cinch.  When  to  that  sapling 
you  add  a  two-hundred-pound  lion  en  brochette, 
the  task  assumes  real  proportions.  For  every 
step  you  advance,  you  slide  back  two;  for 
every  foot  you  mount,  the  rim  grows  two  feet 
higher.  The  brush  is  stiff  and  it  all  slants 
downhill;  the  suspended  lion  swings  like  a 
pendulum  and  threatens  to  throw  you.  We 
found  it  easiest  to  proceed  on  our  hands  and 
knees.  In  this  position  we  could  proceed 
with  comparative  comfort — as  much  as  three 
feet  at  a  time.  It  was  very  hot,  and  inasmuch 
as  the  man  on  the  downhill  end  of  the  pole 
wore  the  cougar  round  his  neck  like  a  fur  boa 
most  of  the  time,  he  experienced  a  constant 
feeling  of  oppression — a  shortness  of  breath, 
a  very  real  discomfort  Then,  too,  her  whisk- 
ers got  in  his  ears. 

At  one  time,  her  front  feet  came  untied,  and 
for  a  few  moments  there  was  a  break  in  the 
monotony  while  we  tramped  down  a  good 
many  yards  of  brush  and  rolled  them  flat. 
To  train  for  such  a  contingency,  one  should 
hug  a  buzz  saw  for  ten  minutes  every  day  on 
an  empty  stomach.  Ours  were  very  empty. 

2IO 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

Inch  by  inch  we  ascended,  and  for  every 
moment  of  distress  we  had  caused  that  crea- 
ture, she  caused  us  two.  Halfway  to  the  top, 
she  was  breathing  heavily,  possibly  from  re- 
strained laughter,  so  we  laid  her  in  the  shade 
and  Fred  went  down  to  the  creek  and  brought 
up  a  hatful  of  water.  We  poured  it  in  her  face ; 
she  gargled  it  and  mastered  her  amusement. 

The  pole  broke  and  we  had  to  shorten  it, 
which  rendered  the  affair  more  difficult;  we 
strained  up  the  face  of  cliffs  and  over  bare 
ledges,  where  we  sunk  our  nails  in  and  clawed 
until  the  sparks  flew.  At  six  o'clock  we 
topped  out.  We  had  been  only  three  hours 
coming  up. 

If  I  were  asked  to  choose  between  repeating 
that  performance  and  toting  a  grand  piano 
up  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson  River,  I  would 
unhesitatingly  choose  the  piano. 

By  now  we  had  formed  the  habit  of  going  on 
all  fours  and  had  to  learn  how  to  walk  up- 
right. The  lioness  was  thirsty  again,  and  in- 
asmuch as  the  dogs  were  still  tied  down  in  the 
canon,  Ambrose  offered  to  play  Gunga  Din 
to  the  cougar  while  we  returned  for  the  pack. 

We  had  left  Paul  with  the  dogs.  When  we 
reappeared  he  voiced  an  unfeeling  inquiry  as 

211 


OH,  SHOOT! 

to  how  we  had  found  all  the  home  folks  in 
New  York. 

"What  have  you  boys  been  doing  for  the 
last  three  hours?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  nothing — just  climbing  around,"  we 
told  him. 

"Did  you  get  her  up?" 

"Easy!" 

"Never  scratched  her  varnish,"  Fred  de- 
clared. "To-morrow  we'll  put  her  in  a  nice 
tree  and  pose  on  every  limb.  They'll  be  some 
pictures,  believe  me." 

But  Paul  was  pessimistic. 

" I  don't  care  much  for  these  fake  'movies,' ' 
said  he.     "Give  me  the  real  thing." 

"Who's  going  to  know  this  is  a  fake?"  we 
demanded.  ' '  We  can  look  brave — after  we've 
rested  up,  and — •" 

"Humph!  I  think  you're  a  couple  of  nuts." 
This  seemed  to  be  a  harsh  judgment  under  the 
circumstances,  but  we  lacked  strength  to 
argue. 

We  led  the  dogs  on  their  leashes  until  we 
were  nearly  to  the  top;  then  we  called  to 
Ambrose,  who  had  topped  out  ahead  of  us 
with  his  sombrero  full  of  water. 

"Is  it  all  right  to  turn  the  dogs  loose?" 

212 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

"Sure!  Turn  'em  aloose!"  he  yelled  back. 
"I've  got  her  half  skinned." 

Fred  and  I  clung  weakly  to  each  other. 

' '  Wh — what! ' '  we  screamed. 

Ambrose  came  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and 
leaned  over. 

"We  should  have  left  her  where  she  was," 
he  shouted.  "Her  belly  was  full  of  fresh 
meat,  and  when  I  got  back  she  was  dead. 
Indigestion,  I  guess." 

"Couple  of  nuts!"  Paul  muttered,  as  he 
toiled  painfully  upward. 

Ambrose  had  spoken  truly.  He  had  re- 
turned from  his  errand  of  mercy  to  find  our 
victim  no  longer  of  this  world.  He  had  her 
hide  off  when  we  reached  him. 

Night  was  approaching;  the  deep  side 
canon  lay  between  us  and  our  horses;  camp 
was  a  long  way  beyond,  and  an  inexplicable 
lassitude  had  come  over  us.  We  were  a 
silent  party;  no  one  had  much  to  say  except 
Paul,  and  his  remarks  we  chose  to  ignore. 

We  took  a  short  cut  on  the  way  to  camp, 
and,  to  mark  the  end  of  a  perfect  day,  we  got 
lost.  In  all  likelihood  we  would  have  wan- 
dered through  those  woods  until  we  perished 
from  loneliness,  and  the  painful  details  of  our 

213 


OH,  SHOOT! 

vacation  would  never  have  been  written  had 
not  Bill  Vaughan  stumbled  upon  us  about 
midnight  and  led  us  back  to  Uncle  Jim's  fire. 

That  concluded  my  part  of  the  entertain- 
ment. I  had  had  enough  rest  to  do  me,  and 
the  strenuous  business  of  pencil  pushing  called 
me  home;  so  the  next  day  I  left  the  plateau. 

I  had  intended  to  return  by  way  of  Bright 
Angel  Creek  and  the  safe-and-sane  trail  to  the 
El  Tovar,  but  Uncle  Jim  and  Ambrose  shat- 
tered my  dream  by  announcing  that  the  water 
was  too  high  and  that  I  must  go  back  as  I 
had  come.  Thoughts  of  the  rampageous  Shi- 
numo,  of  that  rickety  cable,  of  the  breath- 
taking, hair-raising  features  of  the  trail  down 
and  up  to  Bass's  Camp  arose  to  haunt  me; 
therefore  I  was  not  ashamed  when  I  broke 
down  and  sobbed  upon  Fred's  shoulder.  Nor 
was  he  unmoved  at  the  parting.  With  tears  in 
his  eyes,  with  a  quiver  of  deep  and  genuine 
emotion  in  his  voice,  he  said : 

"When  you  get  back  to  the  hotel — if  you 
do  get  back — eat  half  of  a  chocolate  cake  for 
me.  I've  heard  it  tastes  fine." 

I  urged  him  and  Paul  to  return  with  me. 
I  told  them  they  had  rested  long  enough,  and 
I  sooke  feelingly  of  stewed  chicken  and  dump- 

214 


THE  COWARDLY  COUGAR 

lings,  but  they  sadly  shook  their  heads  and 
said  no;  the  trip  was  benefiting  them  and 
they  were  going  to  stay  with  it  as  long  as  their 
strength  lasted. 

When  Miller  pressed  my  hand,  he  said: 

"I'm  certainly  sorry  to  see  you  go,  for  I'm 
afraid  those  other  boys  aren't  husky  enough 
to  pack  out  another  lion.  Now,  you — " 

But  I  clapped  my  hands  to  my  ears  and  fled. 

Why  recount  the  happenings  of  the  return 
journey?  Ordinarily  I  loathe  stewed  chicken, 
but  visions  of  a  large  platter  of  it,  garnished 
with  some  chops  and  a  steak  or  two,  buoyed 
me  up,  and  I  broke  the  trans-canon  record.  I 
ate  half  a  chocolate  cake  when  I  got  in,  but  I 
did  not  think  of  Fred.  I  thought  of  nothing 
but  that  cake.  It  was  a  delicacy  I  had  never 
before  tasted. 

The  other  boys  stayed  on.  They  got  more 
lions,  and  they  experienced  numerous  adven- 
tures more  interesting  than  those  I  have  re- 
counted, but  those  adventures  form  no  part  of 
this  story. 


MESSING  AROUND  IN   MEXICO 

IT  was  during  that  fishing  and  hunting  trip 
to  the  San  Bias  coast  of  Central  America 
that  I  was  first  seized  with  an  acute  interest 
in  the  Gulf  of  California.  Salisbury,  my  com- 
panion on  that  trip,  had  talked  about  it  some- 
what after  this  fashion: 

"I've  been  where  the  fish  were  so  hungry  I 
had  to  stand  back  of  a  tree  to  bait  my  hook, 
but  in  the  gulf  you  don't  have  to  bother  with 
bait  at  all.  They'll  bite  the  propeller  of  a 
launch.  All  the  bait  you  need  is  a  rag.  You 
can't  troll  it  fifty  feet  before  a  fish  will  nab  it. 
Before  you  can  reel  him  in,  a  bigger  fish  will 
have  him,  and  another  one  still  bigger  will  grab 
that  one,  and  then  a  whopper  will  nail  fish 
number  three  and — and — why,  it's  merely  a 
case  of  fitting  one  fish  over  another  until  your 
tackle  breaks!"  Salisbury  was  panting;  in 
his  eyes  was  that  mounting  maniac  glare 
which  every  sportsman  recognizes  as  true 

216 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

Dementia  piscatoris.  "And  hunting!  Hunt- 
ing? Say!  I  stood  in  one  spot  on  Tiburon 
Island  and,  without  lowering  my  hand,  I 
killed  seven  deer  with  a  six-shooter." 

' '  Number,  please  ?     How  many  ?  "  I  queried. 

"Seven!  Big  burro  deer — four  hundred 
pounds  apiece!"  Salisbury's  arithmetic  is  of 
the  free,  outdoor  variety,  but,  after  all,  what 
is  one  deer  more  or  less?  "I  can  lay  a  boat 
alongside  of  bluffs  where  you  can  shoot  moun- 
tain sheep  so  they'll  drop  on  the  deck,"  he 
ran  along,  wildly.  "And  cannibals!  Boy! 
If  you  want  cannibals,  there's  a  bunch  of  'em 
on  Tiburon." 

Now,  I  never  had  wanted  a  cannibal.  I 
could  not  imagine  anybody  feeling  the  faintest 
yearning  for  one,  but  before  Ed  had  finished 
with  me  I  felt  the  first  subconscious  craving  in 
that  line  and  registered  a  vow  to  inflict  my 
personality  upon  that  innocent  man-eating 
community  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

But  that  opportunity  was  delayed;  it  took 
me  a  long  time  to  devise  an  excuse  sufficiently 
plausible  to  convince  my  wife  that  my  presence 
was  needed  in  the  Gulf  of  California.  Any 
married  hunter  who  has  inherited  the  wander- 
ing foot,  any  wedlocked  fisherman  born  with 

217 


OH,  SHOOT! 

a  silver  spoon-hook  in  his  mouth,  as  it  were, 
will  understand  the  adroit  indirectness  with 
which  I  led  up  to  the  mention  of  a  wholly  fic- 
titious business  opportunity  in  the  upper  gulf 
that  needed  investigation.  Slowly,  through 
the  months,  I  built  up  its  importance,  until,  at 
last,  I  reluctantly  decided  to  tear  myself  away 
from  my  work  and  look  into  it,  just  to  have  it 
off  my  mind. 

Salisbury,  too,  had  his  difficulties,  for  he 
had  gone  into  the  navy,  and  navies — like 
wives — have  put  the  kibosh  on  many  a  glorious 
and  unnecessary  vacation.  The  day  came, 
however,  when  we  could  proceed  with  the  de- 
lightful vexations  of  preparing  for  the  trip. 
During  the  interim  we  had  clothed  that 
imaginary  commercial  enterprise  in  such  re- 
alistic garb  that  we  believed  in  it — what  is 
more,  we  had  convinced  several  other  tired 
business  men  of  its  reality,  and  they,  too,  had 
decided  that  the  Gulf  of  California  had  gone 
along  without  them  as  far  as  possible  and 
could  no  longer  succeed  alone.  Gravely  we 
negotiated  with  yacht  brokers  for  a  charter; 
secretly  we  chattered  about  the  wild  men  of 
Tiburon,  and  bought  unlimited  quantities  of 
guns,  ammunition,  rods,  reels,  harpoons,  cast 

218 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

nets,  gaffs,  and  boat  hooks  with  which  to 
demonstrate  the  oil  and  mineral  possibilities 
of  the  country. 

We  laid  in  a  large  supply  of  boat  hooks,  for 
we  reasoned,  conservatively  enough,  that  not 
all  the  mountain  sheep  we  purposed  shooting 
would  fall  upon  the  deck  of  the  yacht.  Some 
few  would  doubtless  miss  the  boat  or  bounce 
overboard,  and  we  did  not  wish  to  lose  any 
specimens;  hence  the  necessity  of  tools  with 
which  to  retrieve  them.  After  some  debate, 
we  decided  not  to  pad  the  deck  of  our  craft. 
What  matter  if  some  few  horns  were  broken  by 
the  fall?  Game  was  all  too  plentiful,  anyhow, 
according  to  Salisbury.  So  plentiful  was  it, 
in  fact,  that  we  swelled  our  party  to  twice  its 
intended  size  in  order  that  no  meat  should 
spoil. 

There  was  Pettis — he  makes  cannon  and 
car  wheels  and  various  kinds  of  steel  and  iron 
fancy  work;  my  brother  Elmer,  who,  out  of 
the  fishing  season,  works  at  the  law  business; 
"Doc"  Wilson,  who  conducts  a  sanatorium 
for  the  treatment  of  motor  troubles,  adminis- 
ters gas  to  and  operates  upon  sick  steamboats, 
launches,  automobiles,  and  the  like;  and 
"Carrots,"  aiias  McDowell.  "Carrots"  vol- 

15  219 


OH,  SHOOT! 

unteered  to  sign  on  as  cook,  and  we  permitted 
him  to  do  so  because  he  declared  he  was  a 
good  shot. 

At  the  last,  just  as  the  boat  was  about  to 
hop  off  from  San  Pedro,  on  its  twelve-hundred- 
mile  hike  to  Guaymas,  Crisp  arrived  out  of 
breath  and  with  the  dust  of  the  Hollywood 
studios  still  upon  him.  He  wore  a  yachting 
cap  from  the  property  room,  and  he  gabbled 
feverishly  about  shooting  thirty  scenes  a  day 
for  five  days  and  changing  a  seven-reel  dra- 
matic feature  into  a  two-reel  comedy  in  order 
to  reach  the  dock  on  time. 

Ed  Salisbury  we  had  promoted,  by  consent 
of  all  except  himself,  to  navigator,  and  for 
the  engine  room  we  had  Ed's  brother  Bill — 
Bill  also  being  nee  the  navy.  He  had  just 
received  his  discharge  from  the  service  after 
a  trip  through  the  Panama  Canal  in  the  bowels 
of  a  destroyer  and  was  fed  up  on  seagoing 
stuff.  He  couldn't  walk  down  an  alley  with- 
out bracing  himself  and  hanging  to  window 
sills,  but  we  persuaded  him  to  go  along  for  the 
rest  and  act  as  governess  to  the  motor.  We 
hope,  in  the  course  of  five  or  six  years,  to  live 
down  the  promises  we  made  to  Bill,  and  he 
expects,  in  the  same  length  of  time,  to  lose  the 

220 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

flavor  of  cylinder  oil  and  get  the  grease  out  of 
his  pores.  Neither,  however,  is  in  any  way 
probable. 

The  owner  of  the  yacht  Par  acted  as  general 
chaperon,  and,  lastly,  there  was  Eddie,  a 
Nicaraguan  colored  boy  of  indefinite  age. 
Candor  compels  me  to  admit  that  without 
Eddie  the  whole  trip  would  have  fliwed. 
Lacking  him,  we  would  have  been  unable  to 
concentrate  our  attention  upon  the  wide 
industrial  problems  we  had  set  out  to  study; 
we  would  have  been  forced  to  heave  in  the 
anchor,  make  up  the  berths,  wash  down  the 
decks,  tidy  up  the  gear,  wait  on  table,  row 
the  small  boat  and  run  the  yacht  tender,  pre- 
pare the  vegetables,  wash  the  dishes,  and  so 
forth.  But  Eddie  relieved  us  of  these  minor 
annoyances,  and,  moreover,  applied  himself 
to  a  multitude  of  other  tasks  more  trying. 
He  did  everything  that  in  any  degree  savored 
of  work,  except  run  the  engine,  and  by  and 
large,  watch  by  watch,  he  is  the  best  crew  I 
ever  sailed  with.  Any  boy  who  can  success- 
fully serve  as  the  entire  personnel  of  a  ship 
with  nine  captains  in  authority  over  him  is 
worthy  of  advancement.  This  we  recognized, 
and  so,  whenever  new  responsibilities  arose 

221 


OH,  SHOOT! 

or  new  tasks  became  necessary,  we  unani- 
mously elected  Eddie  to  do  them. 

To  yachtsmen  cruising  in  west  Mexican 
waters,  gasoline  is  a  problem,  for  it  is  scarce 
and  poor  and  commands  about  the  same  price 
as  the  best  grade  of  contraband  alcoholic 
beverages.  When  our  boat  sailed,  her  tanks 
were  full,  her  decks  crowded  with  steel  drums, 
and  her  cabins  packed  with  case  goods.  She 
smelled  like  a  dry-cleaning  establishment  and 
was  anything  but  an  ideal  retreat  for  a  bunch 
of  tobacco  fiends. 

Pettis  and  I  were  considered  of  less  value 
than  our  weight  in  gasoline;  so  we  went  by 
train  to  Guaymas,  the  most  northerly  town  on 
the  Gulf  of  California,  picking  up  my  brother 
en  route. 

The  Southern  Pacific  of  Mexico,  a  subsidiary 
of  our  Southern  Pacific,  at  this  time  ran  three 
passenger  trains  a  week  in  and  out  of  Mexico, 
connecting  with  the  main  system  at  Nogales, 
Arizona,  a  town  built  astride  the  international 
border,  and  this  intermittent  schedule  served 
a  double  purpose:  not  only  did  it  allow  the 
border  customs  officials  more  time  in  which  to 
harass,  humiliate,  and  annoy  travelers,  but 
also  it  made  life  easier  for  the  Yaqui  Indians. 

222 


1. 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

These  Yaquis  are  a  playful  people,  and  they 
dearly  love  to  hold  up  the  Southern  Pacific 
trains.  That  is  one  of  their  favorite  sports 
and  pastimes.  The  tribe  has  been  at  war  for 
going  on  forty  years,  and  it  is  not  so  numerous 
as  it  once  was;  naturally,  therefore,  it  would 
work  a  hardship  upon  the  survivors  to  run 
more  trains  than  they  can  handle.  Nor  can 
a  Yaqui  do  well  without  his  accustomed  sleep, 
so  the  trains  were  run  only  by  day  and  laid  up 
at  night. 

Let  me  not  imply  that  two  generations  of 
habitual  warfare  with  the  Mexican  govern- 
ment has  resulted  in  reducing  the  strength  of 
the  tribe  to  any  serious  extent.  Not  so. 
There  have  been  deaths  among  the  Yaquis, 
to  be  sure — deaths  from  accident,  old  age, 
exposure,  and  general  wear  and  tear.  Prob- 
ably, too,  there  has  been  a  lot  of  acute  indi- 
gestion and  ptomaine  poisoning,  for  one  could 
hardly  expect  a  party  of  Yaquis  who  had 
suddenly  fallen  heir  to  a  whole  trainload  of 
canned  goods  to  curb  their  appetites,  especially 
when  flushed  and  glowing  from  the  exercise  of 
chasing  the  train  crew  up  the  track  or  when 
weary  from  the  butchering  of  passengers. 
Nothing  induces  such  a  healthy  hunger  as 

223 


OH,  SHOOT! 

vigorous  work  in  the  open,  and  the  fine,  dry 
air  of  Sonora  is  in  itself  a  tonic. 

Outside  of  such  fatalities  as  these,  however, 
I  could  learn  of  little  that  had  occurred  to 
decimate  the  ranks  of  these  warriors.  Life 
for  them  appears  to  be  an  ideal  arrangement, 
for  when  they  tire  of  bloodshed,  or  become 
financially  straitened,  or  wear  out  the  rifling 
in  their  gun  barrels,  they  may  either  join  their 
peaceful  brethren  in  the  Mexican  towns,  there 
to  rest,  pitch  quoits,  and  play  cowboy  pool 
until  the  call  of  the  wild  again  summons  them 
to  the  glad,  free,  careless  life  of  the  hills,  or 
they  may  ride  boldly  north  across  the  border, 
singing  their  folk  songs  and  shooting  at  sign- 
boards, there  to  mingle  with  their  Arizona 
brethren  and  to  enjoy,  so  long  as  suits  them, 
the  blessings  of  Uncle  Sam's  peace,  protection, 
and  religious  training. 

At  Nogales,  we  obtained  a  wholly  false  idea 
of  our  international  boundary.  At  that  point, 
it  is  marked  by  a  high,  barbed-wire  fence 
which  separates  the  American  from  the  Mex- 
ican town  and  runs  up  over  the  hills  and  out 
of  sight.  That  fence  gave  us  a  feeling  of  terri- 
torial inviolability  until  we  learned  that  a 
short  distance  beyond  the  suburbs  it  peters 

224 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

out.  Without  doubt,  that  bristling  barbed 
wire  serves  a  purpose;  it  is  a  real  hindrance 
to  the  free  passage  back  and  forth  across  the 
border  of  Yaqui  war  parties,  bandits,  smug- 
glers and  the  like,  and  makes  necessary  a 
detour  of  several  miles.  The  going  through 
the  cactus  is  not  very  good,  but  frequent 
usage  is  vastly  improving  it.  Why  the  Yaqui 
Chamber  of  Commerce  does  not  affiliate  with 
some  of  the  prominent  Mexican  bandit  march- 
ing clubs  and  lay  a  good  macadam  road 
around  the  end  of  the  fence,  I  don't  know. 

Seriously,  the  Yaqui  situation  in  Sonora  is 
amazing  to  anyone  who  is  not  used  to  it,  and 
brings  home  a  vivid  realization  of  the  narrow 
line  dividing  social  and  political  order  from 
chaos. 

As  one  rushes  through  the  Yaqui  country 
at  an  average  rate  of  nearly  eighteen  miles  an 
hour,  the  effects  of  political  ferment  and  social 
upheaval  are  apparent.  We  were  looking  into 
the  latent  opportunities  of  Mexico,  and  we 
found  practically  all  industry  in  Sonora  para- 
lyzed by  the  conditions  that  exist  there.  It  is 
a  state  rich  in  resources;  not  long  ago  its 
plains  were  alive  with  cattle,  its  valleys  were 
occupied  by  ranches,  its  mines  were  yielding 

225 


OH,  SHOOT! 

work  and  profit  to  many.  To-day,  one  travels 
miles  without  seeing  a  herd  of  stock;  vast 
reaches  that  were  under  ditch  have  grown  up 
to  brush;  and  mining,  for  the  most  part,  is 
carried  on  in  a  desultory,  furtive  sort  of  way. 
On  our  train  were  a  number  of  Americans 
with  property  interests  on  this  coast.  They 
were  considerably  discouraged,  decidedly  re- 
sentful, and  a  bit  bewildered. 

"We  don't  know  where  we  stand,"  one  of 
them  told  me.  "We're  neither  Mexicans  nor 
Americans.  Under  the  terms  of  the  new 
Mexican  Constitution,  we  foreigners  can't  take 
title  to  lands  situated  within  the  frontier  and 
coastal  zones,  and  only  by  waiver  of  citizen- 
ship may  we  acquire  property  in  the  interior. 
It  comes  hard  to  renounce  one's  citizenship, 
and  yet  our  own  government  treats  us  like 
outlaws. 

"This  west  coast  is  wonderful.  We  came 
here  in  time  of  peace,  put  in  our  labor  and 
money,  brought  our  families — it  was  our  prom- 
ised land.  Then  came  the  revolution  and 
most  of  us  had  to  get  out  with  whatever  we 
could  lay  our  hands  on.  Some  few  Americans 
stuck  and  got  through,  but  the  rest  of  us  are 
just  beginning  to  come  back.  We  don't  know 

226 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

how  long  we'll  be  allowed  to  stay,  and  the  un- 
certainty, the  insecurity,  is  getting  on  our 
nerves.  Those  of  us  farther  south  are  doing 
fairly  well  at  present,  but  here  in  Sonora,  of 
course,  the  Indians  are  in  charge." 

"How  many  Yaquis  are  there?"  I  inquired. 

"Probably  not  more  than  a  thousand  bad 
ones." 

"And  they  have  paralyzed  the  entire  state?  " 
I  was  indeed  amazed. 

"The  greater  part  of  it.  The  government 
could  clean  them  up  in  no  time  if  it  cared  to, 
but  it  doesn't.  Why,  if  a  Yaqui  should  run 
a  nail  in  his  foot,  the  local  military  commander 
would  send  regrets  and  hang  crape  on  the  bar- 
racks door.  You  see,  without  Yaquis  there 
would  be  no  soldiers;  no  soldiers,  no  generals; 
no  generals,  no  graft.  It's  a  poor  sort  of  war, 
but  it  is  steady,  and  it  pays  the  same  wages  as  a 
good  war.  The  situation  works  out  about  like 
this:  When  things  get  too  quiet,  the  soldiers 
round  up  the  peaceful  Yaquis  in  some  town, 
deport  part  of  them,  or  possibly  shoot  a  few. 
Naturally  the  'bronchos'  hear  about  it  and  re- 
taliate by  raiding  a  ranch  or  holding  up  a  train, 
whereupon  there  is  great  excitement  and  a  new 
campaign  is  started.  It's  tough  on  ranchers 

227 


OH,  SHOOT! 

and  travelers,  but  it  keeps  the  soldiers  out  in 
the  open  air.  Yonder,  by  the  way,  is  an  Amer- 
ican who  went  through  the  last  outrage.  He 
can  tell  you  quite  a  story." 

The  man  indicated  was  not  averse  to 
talking,  but  the  longer  he  discoursed  upon  the 
Yaqui  subject,  the  more  I  realized  that  we 
had  erred  in  coming  to  Guaymas  by  rail 
instead  of  by  water.  No  matter  how  rough 
the  Pacific  and  how  wet  a  three-room  yacht 
with  kitchenette,  neither  could  be  as  messy  as 
a  massacre. 

"They  killed  about  forty  passengers  that 
day,"  my  new  acquaintance  told  me.  "First 
they  robbed  us;  then  they  stripped  us  of  our 
clothes.  They  were  taking  me  out  to  line  me 
up  with  some  others  to  be  shot,  but  I  jumped 
off  the  wrong  side  of  the  platform  and  made  a 
dash  for  the  brush.  There  was  a  lot  of  con- 
fusion and  excitement,  and  I  managed  to 
keep  hid  out  until  they  had  cleaned  up  the 
train  and  ridden  off.  Then  I  climbed  into 
the  mail  car  and  got  something  to  cover  my 
nakedness.  I  came  into  Empalme  that  night 
wearing  a  pair  of  socks  and  two  mail  sacks — 
one  for  a  shirt  and  the  other  for  a  pair  of  kilts. 
Two  Americans  with  me  were  killed — one  of 

228 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

them  while  he  lay  wounded  and  begging  for 
mercy.  One  woman  managed  to  save  herself 
by  feigning  death.  The  man  seated  next  to 
her  was  killed  at  the  first  volley,  but  she 
dipped  her  hand  in  his  blood  and  smeared 
herself  with  it.  They  stripped  her  dress  off 
her  without  discovering  the  ruse." 

"What  has  been  done  about  it?" 

"Done'?"  My  informant  was  puzzled. 
"Oh,  there  was  considerable  excitement,  and 
the  troops  went  out  for  a  while — " 

"Didn't  our  government  take  any  action?" 
I  ventured  to  inquire. 

"Quit  your  kidding.  This  is  Mexico,  not 
Europe.  That  sort  of  thing  has  been  going  on 
down  here  for  years.  Those  are  the  chances  we 
have  to  take,  the  price  we  Americans  pay  for 
trying  to  make  a  living  outside  our  own  border." 

The  so-called  "danger  zone"  began  at 
Torres  and  extended  south  to  the  Yaqui  River. 
At  the  former  point,  our  train  took  on  two 
armored  cars,  equipped  with  machine  guns 
and  a  crew  of  soldiers  clad  in  pajamas.  Be- 
hind a  freight  train,  which  acted  as  pilot,  we 
continued  our  journey,  beguiled,  meanwhile, 
by  stories  of  bloodcurdling  atrocities  calcu- 
lated to  put  us  fully  at  our  ease. 

229 


OH,  SHOOT! 

But  it  turned  out  to  be  a  dull  trip,  and  we 
encountered  nothing  more  dangerous  than  the 
native  cooking  which  lay  in  wait  at  every  stop. 
The  country  was  inert,  dead,  but  the  in- 
habitants of  the  scattered  villages  appeared 
content  despite  their  poor  circumstances  and 
obvious  idleness.  The  countrymen  and  the 
boys  were  as  dirty  as  one  would  expect  in  the 
midst  of  such  poverty,  but  the  women  were 
surprisingly  clean — a  condition  that  we  could 
not  account  for  until  we  reasoned  that  they 
perform  the  homely  household  duties.  The 
explanation  is  simple :  they  cannot  roll  tortillas 
on  their  naked  knees  and  mix  white  flour  into 
sticky  pastries  without  losing  some  of  the — 
let  us  say  local  color  which  renders  them  so 
picturesque. 

In  Guaymas,  one  got  an  impressive  idea 
of  Mexico's  present  state.  Here,  as  else- 
where, one  encountered  the  trail  of  destruc- 
tion left  by  the  serpent  of  social  unrest.  For 
example,  let  me  quote  from  a  prospectus  issued 
by  a  large  land-development  company  oper- 
ating near  that  city — true  words  when  they 
were  written  not  very  long  ago : 

Mexico  offers  to  the  settler  a  delightful  climate,  fertile 
farms,  none  better  in  the  world;  a  rapidly  developing  coun- 

230 


WHEN*  OUR  BOAT  SAILED,  HER  TANKS  WERE  FULL  AND  HER  DECKS  CROWDED 
WITH  STEEL   DRUMS 


THE   GULF   IS,    IN   TRUTH,    A   GIGANTIC   FISH   TRAP 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

try  where  ener~r  and  ability  reap  their  just  reward;  perfect 
security  for  person  and  property;  transportation  facilities  of 
the  first  order.  The  titles  to  all  land  in  the  valley  (Yaqui) 
are  clear,  and  there  have  never  been  any  lawsuits  in  connec- 
tion therewith.  The  form  and  process  of  transfer  of  real 
estate  in  Mexico  are  much  the  same  as  in  the  United  States. 
Small  thievery  is  unknown — property  interests  are  safe. 
Mexican  taxes  are  never  excessive.  Mexican  laws  are  just 
and  equal,  and  are  much  better  administered  than  in  the 
United  States. 

Aside  from  the  kind  words  about  climate, 
the  above  statements  make  humorous  reading 
these  days,  and  therein  lies  the  appalling 
lesson. 

With  the  world  on  short  rations,  and  the 
price  of  foodstuffs,  even  here  in  the  United 
States,  up  to  a  mining-camp  level,  no  region 
offers  a  greater  example  of  wasted  oppor- 
tunity, of  criminal  extravagance,  than  this 
west  coast  of  Mexico. 

A  marvelous  climate,  abundant  water,  a 
soil  bursting  with  every  growing  thing,  ac- 
cessibility to  the  world's  markets,  ample  labor 
—all  this  the  west  coast  has,  and  yet,  for  the 
most  part,  it  lies  fallow,  weed-grown,  with  its 
farms  deserted  and  its  ditches  caving  in. 
Carranza  said,  "These  foreigners  must  quit 
making  money  out  of  Mexico,"  and  that  state 
of  affairs  has  come  to  pass.  But  the  Mexi- 

231 


OH,  SHOOT! 

cans,  too,  have  quit  making  money  out  of 
Mexico,  for  they  have  not  the  means  with 
which  to  reap  their  own  blessings.  Nor,  at 
this  writing,  are  conditions  improving  to  any 
visible  extent,  and  so,  while  war-shocked 
peoples  are  bending  to  the  task  of  increasing 
the  earth's  productivity,  one  of  the  very 
richest  of  its  gardens  lies  idle. 

Guaymas  was  a  busy  town  of  fifteen  thou- 
sand inhabitants  before  Madero's  day;  its 
shops  were  stocked ;  its  harbor  was  filled  with 
ships  from  every  land;  trains  were  rolling 
northward  heavy  with  freight;  a  boom  had 
struck  the  west  coast.  Lands  were  being 
colonized;  irrigation  ditches  were  building; 
ranches  were  growing;  mines  were  opening. 
To-day,  Guaymas  is  one  third  its  former  size, 
its  shops  are  empty,  and  its  harbor  is  the  same. 
Many  of  its  prominent  citizens  are  in  exile; 
three  trains  a  week  serve  the  whole  west  coast. 
Even  religion  has  been  done  away  with  and 
the  churches  are  closed. 

A  citizen  of  Guaymas,  a  Mexican  gentleman 
of  education,  of  force,  and  of  surprising  en- 
ergy, pointed  out  to  me  the  hazy  hills  across 
the  bay  and  said: 

"Yonder  I  have  thousands  of  acres  of  the 
232 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

richest  land  in  the  world,  and  although  I  can 
feast  my  eyes  on  it  from  here,  I  can't  get  close 
enough  to  work  it.  Over  beyond  those  moun- 
tains I  have  a  big  stock  ranch  that  I  haven't 
seen  for  years.  Fifteen  thousand  head  of  my 
cattle  were  run  off  or  were  slaughtered  for 
their  hides,  and  their  carcasses  left  to  rot.  It 
is  much  the  same  elsewhere,  and  there  are 
many  others  like  me.  We  need  your  money 
and  your  help  to  bring  Mexico  back  where  she 
was." 

This  man's  plight  was  due  to  local  condi- 
tions— to  those  marauding  redskins;  but 
farther  south,  outside  the  Yaqui  belt,  affairs 
were  in  little  better  stead.  Banditry  in  this 
state,  loose  government  in  that;  a  Bolshevist 
land  policy  resulting  in  idleness,  chaos,  graft; 
a  general  scarcity  of  capital,  and,  above  all, 
a  paralyzing  sense  of  uncertainty  as  to  what 
will  happen  next — that  was  the  impression  a 
casual  visitor  gained  of  the  west  coast,  and  it 
was  the  part  of  Mexico  least  ravaged  by  strife, 
most  blessed  with  peace  and  security. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  speak  with  authority  on 
the  internal  affairs  of  Mexico.  It  is  a  large 
subject,  and  too  many  men  have  pretended  to 
understand  it.  But  there  are  questions  so 

233 


OH,  SHOOT! 

plain,  problems  so  elemental,  that  even  a 
thirty-two-caliber  brain  can  grasp  them. 

How  can  that  country  get  back  on  her  feet, 
the  way  she  is  going?  Whence  is  to  come  the 
help  she  needs  if  she  continues  to  antagonize 
those  willing  to  assist  her?  How  can  we  prove 
to  her  that  we  are  not  her  enemies?  How 
long  will  a  world  clamorous  for  peace,  hungry 
for  food,  bankrupt  of  raw  materials,  permit 
one  of  its  richest  sections  to  be  trod  under  the 
feet  of  rioters? 

Self-determination  of  peoples,  racial  in- 
tegrity, experiments  in  the  various  forms  and 
theories  of  government — all  these  we  Yankees 
are  pledged  to  respect — and  it  is  our  wish  to 
respect  them.  But  nature  demands  an  equi- 
librium. Chaos  cannot  continue  to  exist 
alongside  of  order.  One  part  of  the  world 
will  not  long  consent  to  go  hungry  the  while 
another  part  fails  to  till  its  fields  or  refuses  to 
sell  its  crops.  One  of  the  first  tasks  ahead  of 
our  statesmen,  it  seems  to  me,  should  be  an 
earnest,  honest  effort  to  aid  Mexico  to  find 
herself.  If  ever  we  can  be  brought  to  enunci- 
ate and  adhere  to  a  definite  foreign  policy,  I 
believe  we  can  make  friends  once  more  with 
the  Mexicans  and  renew  the  neighborly  rela- 

234 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

tions  that  formerly  existed,  for  the  substan- 
tial, thinking  men  of  that  country  are  awake 
to  the  perils  of  present  tendencies  and  would 
welcome  our  co-operation. 

But  to  go  on  with  this  story,  such  as  it  is. 
The  Par  was  several  days  late  in  arriving,  and 
about  the  time  we  had  given  her  up  she  crept 
into  port  and,  with  a  weak  bleat  of  relief  from 
her  police  whistle,  dropped  anchor.  Then 
out  of  her  swarmed  a  bunch  of  bewhiskered 
beach  combers,  who  fell  to  reviling  the  boat, 
the  weather,  the  life  of  a  yachtsman,  and  one 
another. 

"She  stood  on  her  head  all  the  way  down 
the  outside  and  on  her  tail  all  the  way  up  the 
gulf,"  Salisbury  wailed.  "She's  not  a  sub 
chaser;  she's  a  retriever.  We've  been  up  for 
air  just  three  times  on  the  whole  jaunt,  and 
the  compass  is  out  anywhere  from  twelve  to 
eighty  degrees.  I  had  to  take  her  by  the 
horns  and  lead  her  from  one  landmark  to 
another." 

"Had  to  pull  down  the  engine  and  rebuild 
it  in  the  middle  of  a  storm,"  some  one  said. 
It  was  Bill  speaking,  as  we  discovered  when 
we  took  some  sail  cloth  and  paint  remover 
and  rubbed  away  part  of  his  grime.  ' '  Come 

16  235 


OH,  SHOOT! 

along  for  the  rest,' "  he  quoted,  hollowly,  then 
gave  a  mirthless  laugh.  ''Say!  How  do  the 
trains  run  out  of  here?" 

That  was  Bill's  last  burst  of  merriment; 
thereafter  he  avoided  speech  or  contact  with 
the  rest  of  us.  He  came  up  on  deck  eveiy 
few  days,  to  be  sure,  and  stood  out  on  the  back 
porch  of  the  Par,  doubtless  meditating  mu- 
tinously upon  the  life  of  ease  he  had  led  in  the 
depths  of  a  destroyer,  but  whenever  we  dis- 
covered him  so  engaged  we  drove  him  back 
into  the  engine  room. 

Another  tragedy  had  marred  the  southward 
trip.  "Carrots,"  it  seemed,  could  not  cook. 
Not  even  in  the  slightest  could  he  cook.  He 
had  practiced  a  deep  deception  upon  us — and 
he  took  no  shame  in  it.  On  the  contrary,  he 
derived  a  selfish  pleasure  therefrom. 

"This  trip  has  saved  me  a  lot  of  money,"  he 
declared,  gratefully,  "and  I'm  glad  I  came.  I 
was  thinking  about  buying  a  yacht  some  day. 
Now  I  don't  want  one." 

"We've  got  to  hire  a  new  galley  slave," 
Crisp  declared.  ' '  Eddie  can't  do  everything. ' ' 

Eddie  appeared  at  that  moment,  as  smiling 
and  as  cheerful  as  ever.  He  was  dressed  in 
his  other  overalls  and  was  going  ashore  to 

236 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

mingle  with  the  youth  and  beauty  of  the  town. 
Gradually  it  dawned  upon  me  why  everybody 
looked  drawn  and  haggard — these  men  had 
completely  exhausted  themselves  by  their 
efforts  at  evading  toil,  and  what  few  hours 
they  had  snatched  for  sleep  had  been  troubled 
by  the  colored  boy  as  he  came  and  went  about 
their  tasks. 

The  state  of  Sonora  is  dry,  and  the  evils  of 
unrestrained  prohibition  were  forcibly  brought 
home  to  us  while  we  were  loading  gasoline. 
The  Mexican  boatman  whom  we  engaged  to 
refill  our  tanks  espied  a  demijohn  upon  the 
deck  and,  profiting  by  our  inattention,  under- 
took to  quench  a  thirst  of  several  years' 
standing.  He  seized  that  jug  and  quaffed 
deeply,  without  so  much  as  a  Spanish,  "Here's 
how!"  But  his  haste  betrayed  him,  for  the 
demijohn  contained  formaldehyde.  We  used 
everything  on  that  bargeman  from  white  of 
egg  to  the  gasoline  pump,  but  his  stomach  was 
weak  and  would  retain  neither.  Whatever 
happens,  that  Mexican  will  never  be  haunted 
by  moths,  and  he  should  keep  indefinitely  in 
any  climate.  As  soon  as  he  said  he  was  better, 
we  went  away  from  there,  fearing  that  he 
might  recover  sufficiently  to  call  for  the  police. 

237 


OH,  SHOOT! 

We  had  in  mind  a  mineral  deposit  across  the 
gulf,  so  thither  we  betook  ourselves,  hanging 
like  gorillas  to  such  hooks  and  bolts  and  pro- 
jections inside  the  yacht  as  had  not  been 
pulled  off  on  the  way  down.  It  was  an  all- 
night  run  through  a  cross  sea,  but,  despite 
our  crazy  compass,  Salisbury  hit  our  desti- 
nation smack  in  the  eye,  and  we  hurriedly 
got  out  our  fishing  tackle  to  commence  pros- 
pecting. 

Fishermen  thrive  upon  disappointments. 
A  sportsman  will  travel  thousands  of  miles  to 
reach  ideal  fishing  or  hunting  grounds;  then 
the  better  the  sport  the  fewer  his  thrills,  and 
the  sooner  he  tires  of  it.  Some  of  my  best 
trips  have  resulted  in  the  least  game,  and  so 
with  this  Mexican  expedition.  Not  that  we 
didn't  catch  fish — we  caught  too  many.  That 
was  our  trouble;  we  soon  found  there  was  no 
dramatic  suspense  to  the  procedure.  Wher- 
ever there  was  a  rocky  shore,  there  the  best 
fish  families  of  the  neighborhood  were  lined  up, 
waiting  for  us.  A  rusty  spoon  was  as  tasty  to 
their  palates  as  a  brand-new  nickel-plated 
striker  or  a  hand-painted  minnow  designed  to 
melt  in  the  gills. 

It  was  March;  the  water  was  cold;  hence 
238 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

not  all  of  the  usual  varieties  were  present,  and 
we  caught  mainly  cabrilla — a  sort  of  rock  cod 
that  attains  any  size  which  happens  to  suit  it. 
The  gulf  is,  in  truth,  a  gigantic  fish  trap,  so 
placed  as  to  pocket  every  kind  of  marine  life 
that  works  up  the  coast,  and,  outside  of  sal- 
mon streams,  I  have  never  seen  waters  with 
more  fish  in  them  or  a  region  better  suited 
for  fishing  on  a  commercial  scale.  Practically 
all  varieties  are  edible,  and  the  supply  is  inex- 
haustible, but  nothing  is  being  done  to  exploit 
it,  and  any  ambitious  effort  to  do  so,  under 
present  conditions,  would  almost  certainly  re- 
sult in  failure.  Not  even  Mexico's  citizens 
dare  risk  any  considerable  investment  of 
money  or  effort,  and  of  course  foreign  capital 
is  not  welcome. 

Nowhere  is  there  a  more  desolate  coast  than 
that  of  Lower  California,  that  narrow  seven- 
hundred-mile  Mexican  tongue  of  land  that 
extends  southward  from  our  California  border. 
Naked  headlands  rise  sheer  from  the  sea;  the 
country  behind  is  a  crumpled,  waterless  wil- 
derness, hard-baked,  thirsty,  forbidding.  But 
there  is  a  lure  about  it. 

We  ran  north  up  the  gulf,  closely  skirting 
the  shore,  and  every  foam-girdled  reef  or 

239 


OH,  SHOOT! 

frowning  island  challenged  us,  every  bay  in- 
vited us  to  tarry  awhile  and  to  explore,  every 
winding  valley  was  a  road  to  adventure. 
Somewhere  back  in  those  arid  regions,  rumor 
had  it,  were  old  roads  and  crumbling  ruins,  a 
tribe  of  big,  blond,  blue-eyed  people,  de- 
scended from  a  shipwrecked  crew,  the  women 
of  which  stood  six  feet  high.  On  Angel  de  la 
Guardia  Island  were  pieces  of  a  high-perched, 
stone-paved  highway,  such  as  the  Romans 
built,  and  a  mythical  city  of  round  rock  houses. 
In  Guaymas,  we  had  met  an  American  who 
told  us  confidentially  of  finding  an  ancient 
Spanish  mission  in  the  dust  of  which  lay  a 
gigantic  bell  of  solid  silver.  He  was  even 
then  on  his  way  out  to  get  an  acetylene  torch 
with  which  to  cut  it  into  ingots.  And  there 
were  the  wild  men  of  Tiburon  beckoning 
to  us.  Oh,  the  salt  was  in  our  nostrils  and 
we  had  never  been  anything  except  bucca- 
neers! 

We  pulled  into  a  curving  beach  where  the 
book  told  us  there  was  a  fresh-water  lagoon, 
wild  game,  and  sea  fowl.  While  Elmer  got 
out  his  stoutest  tackle,  praying  that  it  would 
soon  be  broken,  the  rest  of  us  went  ashore 
with  our  guns.  The  lagoon  was  there,  and 

240 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

dusk  found  us  crouching  behind  improvised 
blinds  on  its  edge. 

First  came  the  plover  and  the  curlew,  mew- 
ing mournfully,  and  we  limbered  up  on  them; 
then,  as  the  sun  hid  behind  the  peaks,  the 
ducks  began  to  bore  in.  They  came  like  bul- 
lets— widgeon,  gadwall,  bluebill,  sprig — and 
the  darker  it  grew  the  swifter  they  came, 
rocketing  out  of  the  gloom  until  we  were  snap- 
shooting at  blurs  against  a  dying  sky  and 
marking  the  dead  birds  by  the  splash.  At 
our  backs  the  sea  whispered  lazily;  now 
and  then,  through  the  straining  silence,  came 
the  sound  of  whales  blowing — a  vast,  hollow, 
whistling  echo,  like  the  exhaust  of  some 
slow-turning  engine  more  mighty  than  man 
had  ever  dreamed  of.  Believe  me,  it  was 
some  evening. 

March  is  stormy  on  the  gulf.  The  winds 
pour  down  its  seven-hundred-mile  length  as 
if  they  had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  a  small 
boat  needs  skillful  handling.  We  were  in  a 
bad  anchorage,  and  before  morning  we  were 
driven  out.  Up  the  coast  we  hogged,  turning 
handsprings  around  one  spouting  headland 
after  another  in  search  of  a  hiding  place. 
We  nosed  in  finally  under  the  partial  shelter 

241 


OH,  SHOOT! 

of  a  bold  cape,  but  inasmuch  as  the  Par  was 
rolling  drunkenly  in  the  ground  swell,  we 
spilled  ourselves  ashore  and  went  looking  for 
antelope. 

I  have  never  bagged  an  antelope,  but  I  am 
told  they  can  be  coaxed  within  range  by  the 
waving  of  a  red  handkerchief.  I  do  not  affect 
red  handkerchiefs,  but  inasmuch  as  Eddie  had 
been  too  busy  to  shave  the  members  of  our 
party,  Carrots  had  sprung  a  beard  of  most 
extraordinary  hue;  so  I  took  him  with  me, 
it  being  my  idea,  upon  locating  a  band  of 
pronghorns,  to  lie  down  at  ease  in  the  shade 
and  have  Carrots  show  his  head  above 
the  brush  and  comb  his  vermilion  whiskers. 
We  had  no  opportunity  of  trying  this  arti- 
fice, but  I  pass  on  the  idea  for  what  it  is 
worth. 

Los  Angeles  Bay,  halfway  up  the  inner 
coast  of  the  peninsula,  was  a  welcome  refuge 
from  that  angry  norther,  and  thither  we  crept, 
keeping  our  eyes  open,  en  route,  for  some  oil 
seepages  that  Salisbury  had  in  mind.  We 
found  them,  and  we  would  have  landed  in 
better  weather,  for  undoubtedly  petroleum 
was  bubbling  up  into  the  sea.  We  saw  enough 
to  stimulate  our  active  curiosity  and  to  make 

242 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

us  think  that  some  day  this  region  will  witness 
boring  activities,  but  actual  exploration  was 
out  of  the  question. 

Overboard  went  the  skiff  and  the  speed 
boat  when  we  finally  came  to  anchor,  and  we 
landed  to  arrange  a  trip  into  the  mountains 
for  big-horn  sheep.  The  population  of  Los 
Angeles  Bay  consists  of  two  families,  and  their 
houses  nestle  close  to  a  spring  that  supplies 
the  only  drinking  water  within  many  miles. 
Both  families  are  always  out  of  provisions. 
Sefior  McDonough  is  the  leading  citizen,  but 
he  doesn't  pronounce  it  that  way.  He  is  a 
real  Mexican,  and  he  calls  himself  "Mad- 
done." 

Maddone  was  away,  but  the  other  half  of  the 
adult  male  population  trooped  down  to  the 
beach,  and  to  him  we  made  known  our  desires. 
We  needed  burros  to  convey  us  into  the  local 
Alps,  and  we  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  them.  He 
agreed  that  time  was  the  essence  of  this  under- 
taking, and  promised  to  hasten  forthwith,  or 
even  sooner,  to  the  vague  rancho  of  a  vaguer 
friend,  where  there  were  beasts  of  burden  by 
the  thousand,  or,  at  least,  by  the  hundred. 
To  be  conservative,  there  were  not  less  than 
a  dozen.  Anyhow,  he  was  a  man  of  energy; 

243 


OH,  SHOOT! 

delay  irked  him,  and  he  rested  only  in  vigorous 
action.  His  sandals  were  winged;  he  chafed 
to  be  gone — but,  first,  a  few  hasty  details  were 
to  be  arranged. 

For  one  thing,  he  must  partake  of  his 
comida — possibly  we  could  speed  the  moment 
of  his  departure  by  lending  him  some  coffee 
and  flour  and  sugar  and  fish  lines  and  clothing? 
Any  contribution,  in  fact,  from  a  case  of 
Rhine  wine  to  a  Norfolk  suit  would  be  grate- 
fully acknowledged  and  receive  a  good  home. 
He  was  particularly  in  need  of  a  phonograph 
and  some  new  records.  However,  that  was 
up  to  us;  as  for  him,  he  would  snatch  a  small 
bite  and  then  be  off  at  amazing  speed.  We 
would  probably  kill  more  mountain  sheep  than 
any  like  number  of  white  men,  and  we  were 
such  nice,  generous  people  that  undoubtedly 
their  horns  would  be  tremendous.  He  antici- 
pated a  wonderful  outing,  and  God  had 
sent  us  at  the  precise  moment  when  his 
family  was  out  of  coffee,  lard,  frijoks, 
cigars — 

We  loaded  him  down,  urged  him  to  grab  a 
cold  snack  and  dash  away.  He  promised. 
This  was  at  noon.  The  slow-sinking  sun  had 
hidden  her  face  before  he  divorced  himself 

244 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

from  the  shade  of  his  cabin.  It  was  still  too 
hot  to  travel,  he  assured  us,  but,  once  the  cool 
of  evening  had  fully  settled,  then  indeed  we 
would  be  astounded  at  his  pep.  The  miles 
were  as  inches  to  him;  perspiration  streamed 
from  his  pores  in  torrents.  Quick  action, 
promptitude,  reliability — those  were  his  mid- 
dle names.  Prepare  to*  receive  him  at 
dawn. 

Elmer  had  gone  out  in  the  skiff  with  Eddie, 
but  when  darkness  fell  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  them,  we  hung  out  the  lights  and  blew  the 
fog  horn.  It  had  turned  dead  calm;  the  bay 
was  like  a  sheet  of  metal,  and  the  towering 
mountains  that  ringed  it  about  dwarfed  it  to 
the  size  of  a  pond.  Now,  my  brother  takes 
his  fishing  seriously ;  he  has  played  tarpon  on 
light  tackle  until  they  fainted  from  lack  of 
sleep,  or  until  acute  and  malignant  anaemia 
rendered  them  nerveless.  Nevertheless,  I 
knew  Eddie  to  be  a  grossly  material  young 
colored  boy  addicted  to  growing  pains  and 
recurrent  pangs  of  hunger,  so,  as  the  evening 
wore  on  and  our  signals  brought  no  answer,  we 
became  concerned.  This  calm  could  not  last 
long;  there  are  heavy  tide-rips  and  hidden 
rocks  along  this  coast,  and  even  a  moderate 

245 


OH,  SHOOT! 

breeze  in  a  bay  this  size  would  raise  a  sea  too 
heavy  for  a  tiny  skiff  with  a  four-inch  free- 
board. I  remembered  capsizing  a  boat  once 
in  an  effort  to  land  a  big  fish;  these  waters 
were  deep  and  cold;  the  desolation  of  the 
place  was  oppressive. 

We  finally  hooked  up  a  headlight  and  an 
armful  of  dry  batteries;  then  Wilson  and  I 
set  out  in  the  launch.  This  was  the  first  day 
the  little  speed  boat  had  been  in  the  water ;  she 
spat  and  shuddered  at  the  taste  of  our  Mexican 
gasoline,  but  finally  she  began  to  plane,  and 
we  skimmed  off  into  the  darkness,  swinging 
the  light  in  circles.  We  ran  blindly,  of 
course,  for  we  had  not  the  slightest  idea  in 
which  direction  the  skiff  had  gone. 

After  a  few  miles  we  shut  off  and  yelled, 
but  there  was  not  even  an  echo.  That  silence 
simply  swallowed  our  shouts.  We  repeated 
this  performance  several  times ;  then  we  broke 
down. 

All  speed  boats  break  down  when  most 
needed — the  speedier  they  are  the  more  com- 
plete the  collapse.  I  have  owned  several,  and 
to  me  their  habits  are  so  well  known  that  I 
am  never  surprised,  never  resentful.  I  endure 
their  behavior  with  Christian  fortitude,  expect 

246 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

the  worst,  and  am  seldom  disappointed.  The 
finest  and  the  most  expensive  speed  boat  I 
owned  I  sold  to  the  government  for  one  dollar, 
to  me  in  hand  paid,  receipt  whereof  is  hereby 
gratefully  acknowledged.  Some  war-time  ne- 
cessity made  the  transaction  possible,  but, 
in  view  of  the  small  amount  of  money  in- 
volved, the  government  insisted  upon  re- 
garding that  beautiful  mahogany-and-brass 
extravagance  as  a  gift.  I  did  not.  I  preferred 
to  look  upon  it  as  an  outright  sale  at  a  satis- 
factory price.  Not  long  ago,  I  heard  the 
disquieting  rumor  that  naval  craft  presented 
to  the  government  during  the  war  are  to  be 
returned  to  the  donors.  For  fear  it  might  be 
true  I  sold  my  country  place  at  a  loss  and 
moved  away  from  where  I  then  lived — I 
moved  inland.  Until  I  learn  definitely  that 
the  navy  intends  to  keep  that  boat  I  purpose 
changing  my  address  without  notice  and  as 
often  as  necessary. 

But  the  middle  of  Los  Angeles  Bay  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  is  one  of  the  lonesomest 
places  I  ever  broke  down  in.  I  cared  even 
less  for  it  when  I  discovered  that  our  only 
tools  were  a  monkey  wrench,  an  oar,  two 
pocket  knives,  and  a  pipe  cleaner.  However, 

247 


OH,  SHOOT! 

Doc  was  optimistic;  he  declared  that  one 
monkey  wrench  was  as  good  as  two,  and  we 
had  twice  as  many  knives  as  we  could  possibly 
use.  He  said  it  was  nothing  but  a  broken 
shaft  coupling,  and  he  could  fix  it  in  no  time 
if  he  had  the  boat  in  his  shop.  Anyhow,  she 
stepped  some — didn't  she? — as  long  as  the 
thing  held  out. 

It  was  very  cold  out  there  and  I  was  wearing 
a  hen-skin  suit ;  a  school  of  whales  were  play- 
ing near  by,  and  the  hollow  sound  of  their  tre- 
mendous blowings  emphasized  the  general  lack 
of  coziness. 

Eventually  we  got  the  coupling  to  hold  and 
ran  on  to  the  scowling  shore  opposite.  Along 
this  we  cruised  until  we  had  no  more  than 
enough  gasoline  for  the  return  trip.  Back  we 
skimmed,  trying  to  reassure  ourselves  that 
the  missing  men  would  be  waiting  for  us  at 
the  Par. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  we  picked  up 
the  dull  spark  of  the  yacht's  light.  As  we 
swept  up  to  it,  we  shouted: 

"Have  they  come  in?" 

"Not  yet,"  somebody  answered. 

Under  the  circumstances,  we  dared  not  risk 
moving  the  Par;  so  there  was  nothing  left  for 

248 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

us  to  do  except  replenish  our  supply  of  gas- 
oline, change  into  warmer  clothes,  and  spend 
the  night  in  a  blind  search.  Nobody  had 
much  to  say. 

We  were  ready  to  set  out  again  when 
somebody  cried: 

"Hark!" 

For  some  time  we  could  hear  nothing; 
there  was  not  a  breath  stirring;  the  desert 
shore  was  as  mute  as  the  motionless  bay. 
Then  we  fancied  we  heard  what  might  be  the 
thump  of  oarlocks.  We  yelled  in  chorus. 
After  a  long  wait  there  came  back  a  faint, 
whispered,  "Halloa!"  and  we  relieved  our- 
selves with  the  profanities  that  befit  an 
occasion  of  this  sort. 

Elmer  and  Eddie  had  run  out  to  the  harbor 
entrance — in  this  timberless  country  of  high 
headlands  distances  are  amazingly  foreshort- 
ened— and  had  given  the  cabrilla  a  bad  half 
hour  or  so,  when,  in  the  midst  of  the  fun,  the 
kicker  gave  a  few  despairing  coughs,  its  tongue 
dropped  back,  and  it  died  in  their  arms.  They 
had  selected  the  wrong  mountain  for  a  land- 
mark and  had  been  rowing  since  mid-after- 
noon. They  didn't  mind  that  so  much ;  what 
made  them  sore  was  for  us  to  have  moved  the 

249 


OH,  SHOOT! 

yacht,  blown  out  all  her  lights,  and  conversed 
in  whispers.  Humor  was  all  right  in  its  place, 
but  if  we  thought  that  was  funny,  we  were 
crazy.  Meanwhile,  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
wouldn't  somebody  suggest  a  bite  to  eat? 

"Better  get  some  sleep,"  Salisbury  warned 
the  rest  of  us,  "for  that  winged  Mexican  will 
be  back  at  daylight  with  his  panting  burros, 
and  it's  a  long  hike  up  to  the  sheep  country." 

That  Mexican  bore  the  name  of  Macario, 
which  we  fatuously  believed  to  be  the  Spanish 
equivalent  of  Mercury,  but  there  was  a  catch 
in  it  somewhere.  Through  a  long  forenoon  we 
fried  ourselves  on  a  hot  deck  and  waited  for 
him.  During  the  cool  of  the  previous  evening 
the  mountains  back  of  the  bay  had  looked 
invitingly  near  and  not  too  high,  but  in  the 
pitiless  heat  of  that  glaring  forenoon  they 
retreated  and  reared  themselves  skyward  to 
such  an  extent  that  Salisbury  conceived  a 
brilliant  idea.  Why  not  split  the  party,  leave 
some  here  to  try  for  sheep,  while  the  others 
ran  up  the  coast  seventy-five  miles  to  another 
bay  where  the  chart  indicated  that  the  hills 
had  been  stunted  in  their  early  years?  Up 
there  were  both  sheep  and  antelope  in  abun- 
dance. Salisbury  was  sure  of  it. 

250 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

Now,  I  hate  brilliant  ideas;  I  detest  people 
who  have  them.  Having  been  on  other  trips 
with  Ed,  I  know  him  for  what  he  is — a  wind- 
lass hunter.  He  wears  out  an  anchor  hoisting 
it  before  it  has  hit  bottom;  so,  therefore,  I 
declared  I  was  cut  to  measure  for  the  spot  I 
was  then  in,  and  Wilson  took  the  same  stand. 

When  we  voiced  our  intention  of  taking 
Eddie  along  as  interpreter,  Ed  fought  as  a 
lioness  fights  for  her  cub,  but  we  prevailed. 
We  threw  some  grub  together,  went  ashore, 
and  the  yacht  sailed  north. 

Up  at  Macario's  house  were  two  somnolent 
burros,  also  some  native-made  aparejos,  raw- 
hide rope,  and  the  like.  Upon  one  animal  we 
lashed  our  food  and  bedding;  upon  the  other 
we  loaded  a  cylindrical  steel  tank  containing 
enough  water  for  several  days. 

It  sounds  easy  to  tie  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  of  water  upon  the  spine  of  a  docile 
burro,  even  without  the  aid  of  a  pack  saddle. 
So  it  is.  But  to  tie  it  there  without  even 
driving  a  nail  into  the  animal  or  screwing  in 
a  few  clothes  hooks,  and  have  it  remain  tied 
after  the  burro  moves — that  is  another  matter. 
There  are  probably  half  a  dozen  simple,  easy 
cowboy  "hitches"  that  will  do  the  trick; 
17  251 


OH,  SHOOT! 

they  are  simple,  that  is,  if  one  carries  a  cow- 
boy in  one's  baggage,  but  to  the  inept  they 
are  as  mysterious,  as  elusive  as  the  Aurora 
Borealis. 

We  rubbed  practically  all  the  plush  off  the 
abdomen  of  that  quadruped;  we  pulled  and 
hauled  until  we  wore  his  tread  clear  down  to 
the  fabric.  We  wrapped  him  round  and  round 
with  rawhide  rope  and  pieces  of  string  and  gal- 
luses and  bale  wire ;  then  we  cross-hauled  and 
cinched  him  up  until  he  bulged  dangerously  at 
both  ends.  But  he  could  teach  tricks  to  Hou- 
dini  the  Handcuff  King.  Before  he  had 
walked  a  quarter  of  a  mile  he  had  loosened 
our  knots  and  the  steel  cylinder  had  slipped 
until  he  carried  it  as  a  kangaroo  carries  its 
young.  By  the  time  we  had  unlashed  and 
reloaded  it,  we  were  so  thirsty  that  we  had  to 
uncork  the  tank  and  drink.  It  became  a  nice 
problem  whether  we  would  get  out  of  sight  of 
the  spring  before  our  water  was  exhausted.  Fi- 
nally, we  invented  a  hitch  of  our  own,  braced 
ourselves,  and  heaved  in  on  the  corset  strings 
of  that  burro  until  he  was  a  perfect  thirty-six. 
We  all  but  vivisected  him,  but,  believe  me,  we 
anchored  that  tank.  He  would  have  worn  it 
to  his  grave. 

252 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

It  was  well  on  toward  evening  when  we  met 
Macario  and  eight  dust-coated  desert  mock- 
ing-birds straggling  through  the  cactus.  With 
them  was  a  lean  six-foot  Maduro  brigand, 
wearing  the  mustache  of  a  walrus  and  the 
name  of  Angel.  At  sight  of  our  pack  animals, 
his  and  Macario 's  eyes  protruded  like  those 
of  our  unhappy  water  carrier;  with  exclama- 
tions of  wonderment  and  admiration  they 
unwrapped  the  animal  as  if  he  were  a  broken 
leg  and  gently  massaged  his  vital  organs  back 
into  place.  Then  they  showed  us  how  they 
could  secure  a  steel  tank  in  place  with  a  couple 
of  simple  turns. 

They  had  brought  with  them  a  collection  of 
antique  saddles,  or  the  skeletons  thereof,  and, 
selecting  the  stoutest  animal  in  the  group, 
they  indicated  that  I  was  to  climb  into  the 
middle  of  him.  For  a  six-foot  man  to  get  on 
a  burro  is  about  as  perilous  as  mounting  a 
sawbuck;  it  strains  nothing  but  the  rider's 
self-respect.  I  like  burros;  I  had  vowed  that 
I  would  rather  walk  across  the  peninsula  than 
inflict  my  avoirdupois  upon  a  brute  too  small 
to  carry  a  tune,  but  after  ten  miles  afoot  in 
that  desert  I  would  have  sat  on  a  ground- 
squirrel.  However,  my  relief  was  short-lived. 

253 


OH,  SHOOT! 

My  steed  creaked  in  every  joint;  he  sighed 
mournfully;  then  he  lay  down,  leaving  me 
standing  astride  of  him  like  the  Colossus  of 
Rhodes.  I  coaxed  him  to  rise,  mounted  again ; 
and  again  he  abased  himself  in  an  attitude  of 
prayer.  We  repeated  this  performance  several 
times,  but  the  oftener  he  rehearsed  the  more 
perfect  he  became;  so  I  shifted  to  a  lop-eared 
old  goat  as  dusty  as  a  Pullman  seat.  The 
joints  of  this  burro  were  too  stiff  to  bend,  and 
so,  eventually,  we  went  away  from  there, 
riding  with  our  knees  under  our  chins  so  that 
our  feet  would  not  drag. 

Evening  brought  a  sunset  such  as  I  have 
never  seen.  Masses  of  storm  clouds  had  piled 
over  the  ragged  Cordillera,  and  the  dying  sun 
beyond  ignited  them.  The  fire  spread  until  the 
heavens  were  gloriously  ablaze.  The  heat  of 
the  day  had  diminished,  and  twilight  softened, 
beautified  the  harsh,  hateful  outlines  of  the 
desert ;  the  place  became  peopled  with  shapes 
and  shadows;  it  throbbed  with  mystery  and 
suggestion.  The  storm  came  eventually — a 
cataclysmic  war  on  high,  resulting  in  a  Mex- 
ican cloudburst.  Six  drops  of  rain  fell;  then 
the  moon  broke  through. 

Steadily,  silently  we  rode;  we  were  tired, 
254 


THE    DEER   LOOKED    SMALL    FROM    THE    TOP    OF    THE    HILL,    BUT   AFTER 
HE    WAS    DRESSED    HE    WAS    THE    SIZE    OF    A    HORSE 


I   WAS   READY   FOR   A   BATH   WHEN   I   REACHED  THE   SHORE 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

hungry.  The  occasional  flare  of  a  match  be- 
neath wide  straw  sombreros  illumined  the 
lean,  swarthy  faces  of  our  guides.  Up  a  long 
hogback  we  went,  alongside  a  deep  gorge, 
then  into  a  black  canon,  the  perpendicular 
walls  of  which  crowded  so  close  that  we  could 
touch  them  on  either  side.  Out  of  this  and 
into  another  valley.  It  was  a  relief  to  slip  off 
of  those  desert  Fords  and  plod  through  the 
ankle-deep  sand.  Macario  had  armed  himself 
with  a  stick,  and  with  it  he  beat  clouds  of 
choking  dust  from  the  laggard  animals;  but 
they  appeared  to  enjoy  it.  Whenever  one 
found  a  dead  bush,  particularly  dry  and 
brittle,  he  ate  it  with  meditative  relish,  the 
while  Macario  yelled  hoarse  profanities  and 
dislocated  his  shoulders  by  flailing  the  nearest 
portion  of  the  burro's  anatomy. 

The  vegetation  had  changed  here.  The 
desert  was  forested  with  twisted  growths, 
doubly  distorted  by  the  moon.  Leafless  trunks 
towered  on  every  hand  like  the  stubs  left  in 
the  track  of  a  forest  fire. 

About  midnight  we  drew  up  to  the  foot  of 
a  barren  ridge  and  crept  into  a  tiny  cavern, 
perhaps  three  feet  high  at  the  entrance  and 
five  feet  deep.  Amid  sighs  and  groans,  we 

255 


OH,  SHOOT! 

fitted  the  mellow  portions  of  our  bodies  over 
the  protuberances  in  the  rocky  floor  and 
turned  our  backs  to  the  cold  wind.  We  were 
dry  and  dusty;  our  skins  cracked;  we  grated 
when  we  rubbed;  there  was  sand  in  our  gar- 
ments and  grit  in  our  teeth,  but  Angel  had 
seen  a  flock  of  sheep  crossing  the  valley  at  this 
place  not  a  week  before,  and  we  were  content. 

"That  gang  on  the  boat  will  be  sore  when 
we  come  back  all  worn  out  with  sheep,"  Wilson 
chattered. 

"Sure!  When  you  go  for  game,  you  have 
to  work  for  it,"  I  agreed. 

I  snuggled  closer  to  Wilson,  and  thereby 
crowded  him  farther  out  into  the  arctic  night 
wind.  Our  cave  was  moulting.  At  our  every 
move,  the  low  roof  showered  us  with  dirt ;  but 
we  spat  it  out  and  agreed  that  sheep  hunting 
in  this  country  was  almost  too  enjoyable  to 
be  interesting. 

There  was  a  meeting  of  the  Coyote  Choral 
Club  about  daylight ;  so  we  got  up,  not  greatly 
fatigued  by  our  night's  rest,  and  were  away  at 
sunup.  Although  we  saw  no  sheep,  it  turned 
out  to  be  a  most  interesting  day,  for  our  sur- 
roundings were  unreal,  and  climate,  geology, 
vegetation  were  such  as  to  shatter  our  precon- 

256 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

ceived  notions  of  deserts.  To  begin  with,  this 
waterless  region  rustled  with  bird  and  animal 
life — quail,  doves,  rabbits,  coyotes.  Deer  were 
plentiful,  and  there  were  antelope,  too.  The 
soil  was  a  wavering  network  of  various  sorts 
of  tracks.  The  born  hunter  derives  more  en- 
joyment from  a  new  country,  from  the  obser- 
vation and  study  of  animal  habits,  than  from 
the  chase  itself.  If  he  be  a  naturalist  at  heart, 
thirst,  fatigue,  blistered  feet  become  pleasures. 
Most  amazing  of  all  was  the  vegetation. 
Our  way  led  us  through  a  veritable  jungle, 
sprung  from  a  soil  as  dry  as  gunpowder. 
Every  plant,  every  bush,  every  trunk  bristled 
with  thorns  and  spikes  and  hooks  and  dag- 
gers— why,  I  don't  know,  for  nobody  could 
possibly  want  to  do  them  violence.  There 
were  high  trees  shaped  like  huge,  elongated 
pineapples,  which  bore  foolish  finger-length 
branches  and  leaves  smaller  than  clover; 
others  that  writhed  and  twisted  spirally  or 
had  lop  ears  and  elephants'  trunks;  cacti 
from  the  size  of  sea  anemones  up  to  giant 
Jewish  candlesticks  with  forty-foot  branches; 
trees  that  sat  on  top  of  the  ground  like  gourds, 
or  squatted  on  flat  rocks  and  dropped  legs 
down  into  the  sand ;  century  plants  with  hot- 

257 


OH,  SHOOT! 

house  blooms  held  high  on  military  lances; 
fragrant  herbs  that  Angel  told  us  were  food 
and  medicine.  It  was  a  wonderland  of  curi- 
osities and  contradictions.  For  instance,  I 
cut  a  branch  for  a  staff,  but  it  ran  blood  all 
over  my  hands.  I  cut  another,  and  it  exuded 
milk.  The  third  gave  forth  honey  instead  of 
sap. 

With  sweat  pouring  from  us,  now  that  the 
sun  was  back  on  the  job,  we  toiled  up  a  four- 
thousand-foot  spur  of  the  main  range.  Near 
the  top  we  ran  upon  a  sloping  meadow,  a 
lush  and  lovely  beauty  spot,  carpeted  with 
strange  red  and  blue  and  yellow  flowers,  the 
perfume  of  which  was  heavenly. 

Sheep  "signs"  were  plentiful  all  up  and 
down  the  ridge;  we  hung  our  feet  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliffs  and  let  the  view  soak  in,  then 
combed  the  country  with  our  glasses. 

Near  by,  we  came  upon  a  city  of  cave 
dwellings  in  very  good  repair.  The  whole 
face  of  a  long  bluff  was  perforated  with  en- 
trances, lending  it  a  Swiss-cheese  effect,  and 
opening  from  the  main  chambers,  in  some  in- 
stances, were  smaller  compartments  which  had 
doubtless  served  the  original  homesteaders  as 
china  cabinets,  coat  closets,  and  butlers'  pan- 

258 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

tries.  Nature  had  fashioned  the  caves,  but 
the  living-room  ceilings  had  been  done  over; 
they  were  crudely  smoothed  off  as  if  by  bone 
instruments — perhaps  the  heads  of  the  short- 
waist  ed  inhabitants.  So  I  deemed  likely 
when  I  stood  up  in  one. 

Not  all  the  isthmus  of  Lower  Calif ornia  is  a 
desert  such  as  we  were  in.  Far  from  it. 
Much  of  the  land  on  the  Pacific  side,  and 
especially  that  in  the  northerly  section,  is  like 
that  of  our  southern  California,  and  with  de- 
velopment would  rival  in  richness  the  vaunted 
habitat  of  the  Native  Son.  Its  isolation  from 
the  mother  country — the  long,  narrow  gulf 
completely  separating  the  two — has  resulted 
in  a  peculiar  state  of  political  affairs;  it  is  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  independent.  Cantu, 
the  present  governor,  is  a  forceful,  energetic 
person.  He  is  popular,  and  he  maintains  a 
considerable  army  upon  steady  pay.  He  and 
his  party,  if  there  is  such  a  thing,  make  their 
own  laws,  levy  and  collect  their  own  taxes, 
and  thumb  their  noses  at  the  Carranza  govern- 
ment, daring  them  to  do  something  about  it. 
Since  Mexico  lacks  a  navy,  and  it  is  a  long, 
dry  walk  around  the  head  of  the  gulf,  the  bluff 
holds. 

259 


OH,   SHOOT! 

Governor  Cantu  is  generally  liked  by  Amer- 
icans, and  is  credited  with  progressive  ideas 
for  the  development  of  his  state.  He  main- 
tains internal  order,  and  considerable  Ameri- 
can capital  is  invested  near  the  border. 

One  American,  however,  told  me  an  experi- 
ence which,  if  true,  reflects  no  credit  upon  the 
present  state  government.  During  the  war, 
he  learned  there  were  vast  herds  of  wild  burros 
in  Lower  California,  and  obtained  a  conces- 
sion to  build  and  operate  a  slaughterhouse  and 
reduction  works  for  the  purpose  of  meeting 
the  shortage  of  oils  and  fats.  The  hides  were 
to  be  saved  and  the  carcasses  reduced  to 
fertilizer.  As  a  tax,  he  agreed  to  pay  fifty 
cents  for  every  animal  killed.  After  he  had 
built  his  plant  and  operated  it  a  short  time, 
the  tax  was  arbitrarily  raised  to  three  dollars 
and  fifty  cents  per  head,  and  he  had  to  shut 
down. 

There  is  also  a  story  of  a  Russian  colony 
which  took  up  land  and  planted  wheat  with 
the  understanding  that  the  government — I 
was  told  this  meant  the  governor  himself — 
would  build  a  mill  to  grind  the  grain.  This 
was  done,  but  at  a  price  of  a  dollar  a  bushel, 
which  broke  the  community  flat. 

260 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

Such  methods,  whether  true  of  Lower  Cali- 
fornia or  not,  are  certainly  not  uncommon  in 
other  Mexican  states  and  largely  explain  the 
stagnation  of  business  at  this  writing.  It  is  the 
more  regrettable  because,  prior  to  the  Madero 
experiment  in  political  science  and  the  subse- 
quent chaos,  foreign  capital  was  as  safe  in 
Mexico  as  were  foreign  lives.  The  lot  of  the 
peons  was  unhappy,  pitiful ;  nevertheless,  the 
country  was  developing,  advancing,  and  that 
very  outside  capital  which  is  now  discouraged 
was  doing  much  to  improve  the  condition  of 
the  poor. 

While  on  this  subject,  it  is  interesting  and 
instructive  to  note  the  circle  through  which 
the  Mexican  experiments  have  revolved.  As 
everyone  knows,  much  of  Mexico's  lands  were 
held  in  large  parcels  by  the  wealthy  class. 
When  the  revolution  triumphed,  the  reformers 
said: 

"Enough  of  the  old  system.  It  is  unjust, 
malicious.  We  will  expropriate  these  lands 
and  sell  or  give  them  away  in  small  pieces." 
So  they  went  at  it. 

But  did  the  land-hungry  small  investor 
buy?  He  did  not.  He  said,  very  reasonably, 
too: 

261 


OH,  SHOOT! 

"Why  should  I  pay  my  good  money? 
You  took  this  land,  without  due  process  of 
law,  from  its  original  owners,  who  held  it 
under  sacred  government  guaranty.  What  is 
to  prevent  you  from  some  day  taking  it  away 
from  me?" 

In  view  of  this  absurd  attitude  of  mind,  ar- 
guments, further  guaranties,  availed  nothing; 
so  it  was  decided  that  the  state  should  work 
the  lands,  for  revenues  had  to  be  raised 
somehow. 

Here  comes  the  lesson  in  socialism — a 
lesson  that  our  own  restless  element  would  do 
well  to  ponder  over,  for  it  applies  to  one  coun- 
try, one  people,  as  well  as  to  another.  When 
Mexico  tried  to  work  her  own  lands,  she  failed, 
as  she  was  bound  to  do.  Either  she  could  not 
get  the  labor  or  such  labor  as  she  did  get  was 
lazy,  inefficient,  or  dishonest.  Anyhow,  the 
scheme  blew  up  and  left  the  government  more 
than  ever  perplexed  as  to  means  of  meeting 
the  "overhead."  That  need  remained;  it 
grew  steadily. 

There  was  but  one  other  course  to  follow, 
viz.,  increase  taxes.  That  Mexico  did.  She 
boosted  them  with  a  vengeance.  But  the 
idealist  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe;  the  obvious 

262 


TYPES   OF   SERI    INDIANS 


THE    SERIS    PADDLED   ASHORE   TO    PREPARE   FOR   US 


THE  LIVING   QUARTERS   OF  THE    SERIS   WERE    NOTHING    BUT   WINDBREAKS, 

SMALL   BRUSH  CORRALS,   AND   THERE  WAS  NOTHING  IN  THE   VILLAGE   THAT 

LOOKED  LIKE  A  ROOF 


MESSING  AROUND  IN   MEXICO 

and  the  practical  forever  obtrude  themselves 
and  spoil  the  reformer's  work  just  when  he 
rolls  up  his  sleeves,  spits  on  his  hands,  and  is 
about  to  show  what  he  can  do.  In  this  in- 
stance, the  property  owners  sat  back  in  their 
traces  and  refused  to  pull  the  load. 

"Take  our  land,"  said  they.  "We  can't 
exist  under  such  a  burden." 

But  land  was  the  last  thing  the  government 
wanted.  It  began  to  compromise  and,  under 
threat  of  walking  out,  the  property  owners 
paid  what  they  thought  was  right  or  could 
afford.  This,  of  course,  opened  the  way  to 
unlimited  graft,  and  was  seized  upon. 

Having  failed  in  these  radical  experiments, 
Mexico  is  now  talking  about  restoring  the 
seized  lands  to  the  original  owners  and  rein- 
stating them  upon  a  productive  basis,  so  that 
business  and  the  flow  of  revenue  will  be  re- 
sumed. When  she  does  that,  the  circle  will 
have  been  completed. 

Doc  and  I  hunted  hard  for  those  desert 
sheep,  and  I've  no  doubt  we  would  have 
landed  some  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that 
Carrots  had  tucked  into  our  grub  sack  several 
cans  of  assorted  fish.  That  tinned  sea  food 
spoiled  the  party.  We  were  on  short  water 

263 


OH,   SHOOT! 

rations,  anyhow;  whenever  one  of  us  glued 
his  parched  lips  to  a  canteen,  the  others  looked 
on  like  starving  Armenians  and  prayed  that 
he  would  break  his  arm — but  when  necessity 
forced  us  to  partake  of  that  salt-water  product, 
our  smoldering  insides  burst  into  flame.  Mere 
ordinary,  perishing  thirst  became  a  delightful 
memory;  we  quit  looking  for  game  and  went 
hunting  green  maguey  plants  and  the  juicier 
varieties  of  cactus,  such  as  the  deer  quench 
their  thirst  with. 

Some  of  those  cacti  bore  crops  of  what 
resembled  huge  luscious  watermelons,  others 
had  canteloupes  sitting  on  their  tops,  and  of 
course  that  made  it  nice. 

We  breathed  dust ;  we  slept  in  the  sand  like 
lizards;  we  scrubbed  our  dishes  in  it  until  the 
grub  pile  disappeared;  then  we  saddled  up 
and  hiked  back  for  the  coast.  Even  the 
animals  speeded  up. 

It  is  not  an  unmitigated  delight  to  ride  a 
burro  when  it  is  in  a  hurry.  Without  warning, 
it  bursts  into  a  trot  for  a  few  mincing  strides, 
then  it  slips  into  reverse,  stops  as  if  petrified 
and  you  kiss  it  between  the  ears. 

We  arrived  at  the  bay  late  at  night  in  the 
midst  of  a  roaring  sand  storm,  and  made  out 

264 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

the  yacht  veering  drunkenly  about  at  her 
anchorage  as  the  gale  boiled  over  the  moun- 
tains and  blew  her  this  way  and  that.  Car- 
rots put  off  in  the  skiff  to  pick  us  up,  but  a 
gust  caught  him  and  spun  him  out  into  the 
gloom.  We  rid  our  mouths  of  burro  hair  and 
dust,  and  answered  his  mournful  cries  for 
help.  It  did  not  seem  right,  after  all  we  had 
endured,  that  we  should  be  deprived  of  Car- 
rots and  denied  our  vengeance  for  those  cans 
of  briny  fish.  When  the  wind  shifted  and 
whirled  him  into  sight,  we  waded  out  to  meet 
him,  but  before  we  could  entwine  our  hungry 
fingers  in  his  vermilion  beard  another  squall 
bore  him  gyrating  out  into  the  bay.  This 
time  he  broke  an  oar.  It  was  too  dark  to 
see  to  shoot  him,  so  we  sat  down  and  wept. 
We  were  strong  men,  but  thought  of  this 
meeting  had  been  like  wine  to  us;  we  had 
reached  the  breaking  point. 

When  he  finally  managed  to  scull  in  to  the 
beach  his  arms  were  paralyzed ;  he  could  not 
even,  raise  his  hands  in  supplication,  and — well, 
we  lacked  the  heart  to  do  away  with  him. 

If  in  my  story  I  appear  to  digress  at  times, 
if  I  deal  idly  in  passing  with  things  Mexican 
from  big  game  to  botany,  from  politics  to 

265 


OH,  SHOOT! 

canned  fish,  it  is  because  the  trip  itself  was  a 
digression,  an  experiment  in  applied  idleness, 
and  one  incident,  one  place,  was  about  as 
diverting  to  us  as  another. 

Before  recrossing  the  gulf,  a  word  more 
regarding  that  queer,  little-known  peninsula 
of  Lower  California  which  we  were  leaving. 
It  is  one  of  the  last  frontiers.  It  is  a  region 
at  once  amazingly  fertile  and  as  sterile  as  the 
moon,  a  land  both  rich  in  resource  and  readily 
accessible,  and  yet  almost  unpeopled  and  un- 
touched. Mexico  will  not  consent  to  sell  it 
to  us — talk  along  that  line  offends  every  in- 
stinct of  the  Mexican.  Strategically,  it  would 
be  a  tremendous  asset  to  the  United  States, 
and  it  would  probably  yield  many  products  of 
great  value,  but  further  discussion  of  a  pur- 
chase can  serve  only  to  inflame  and  antagonize 
— and  international  antagonisms  we  can  very 
well  do  without  for  a  while. 

Angel  de  la  Guardia  Island  lay  just  abreast 
of  our  anchorage,  a  vast,  mountainous  mass, 
as  bare  and  infertile  as  the  head  of  a  sledge 
hammer,  but  we  lacked  time  in  which  to  ex- 
plore it  for  that  old  paved  road  and  the  city  of 
stone  houses.  Instead,  we  took  advantage  of 
the  first  decent  day  to  run  back  across  the  gulf. 

266 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

The  gulf,  at  this  point,  is  narrow  and  has 
been  left  in  a  wretched  state  of  disrepair.  It 
is  all  cluttered  up  with  reefs  and  islets;  vast 
piles  of  loose  building  material  lie  around,  half 
or  wholly  submerged,  and  affording  a  menace 
to  traffic.  Worst  of  all,  there  is  not  even  a  red 
lantern  out  at  night  to  warn  a  yacht  of  some 
detour. 

We  did  not  tell  our  pilot  whither  we  were 
bound,  else  he  would  have  gone  to  board  with 
Maddone,  for  Tiburon  is  not  a  popular  point 
of  call,  and  local  boatmen  avoid  it  like  the 
"flu." 

When  he  finally  discovered  that  we  were 
headed  for  the  stamping  grounds  of  the  no- 
torious Seris,  he  surrendered  the  wheel  and 
disclaimed  further  responsibility  for  anything 
except  his  own  safety.  That  he  proposed  to 
safeguard.  He  complained  that  Tiburon  was 
his  idea  of  no  place  to  be  after  dark,  and  as- 
sured us  that  even  the  rent  collector  passed 
it  up  and  the  cops  ignored  it.  In  comparison 
with  its  inhabitants,  the  Yaquis  were  lovable, 
orderly  people,  and  the  electric  chair  was  too 
good  for  any  Seri.  If  we  chose  to  go  ashore 
there,  we  would  part  as  friends,  and  there 
would  be  no  hard  feelings,  but  he  would  appre- 

18  267 


OH,  SHOOT! 

date  it  if  we  would  show  him  how  to  start  the 
engine,  as  it  was  a  long  row  home. 

Salisbury  had  long  since  "sold"  us  this  Seri 
proposition  with  his  tales  of  their  uncouth 
habits;  it  required  no  such  boosting  as  this 
to  further  prejudice  us  in  their  favor.  We  had 
no  particular  fear  of  them,  especially  Crisp  and 
I,  for  to  anybody  engaged  in  the  motion-pic- 
ture business,  lack  of  refinement  is  nothing 
unusual.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  had  decided, 
if  in  truth  these  savages  were  cannibals,  to 
purchase,  hire,  rent,  lease,  or  steal  a  brace  of 
the  hungriest,  blood  thirstiest  man-eaters  and 
take  them  back  to  Los  Angeles  with  us. 
Crisp  wanted  his  for  an  assistant  director,  and 
I  proposed  to  feed  mine  on  scenario  writers. 
The  eating  of  human  flesh,  the  gnawing  of 
human  bones,  is  a  reprehensible  habit,  no 
doubt,  and  should  not  be  generally  encour- 
aged, but  if  it  must  be  practiced,  where  better 
than  in  and  around  a  studio? 

But  from  our  first  examination  of  Tiburon 
Island,  we  began  to  doubt  that  these  Seris 
were  what  they  had  been  painted.  The  soil 
was  poor,  too  poor  to  raise  any  kind  of  garden 
truck,  and  we  reasoned  that  if,  indeed,  they 
were  cannibals,  it  was  purely  because  they 

268 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

were  forced  to  subsist  upon  canned  goods 
for  want  of  fresh  vegetables.  Salisbury  was 
positive,  however — he  knew  them.  He  told 
about  an  expedition  of  newspaper  men  that 
had  landed  here  years  before  and  had  disap- 
peared, leaving  nothing  but  well-picked  femurs 
and  tibias  to  indicate  the  manner  of  their 
taking-off.  The  pilot  recounted  the  tale  of 
some  storm-bound  fishermen  who  had  met  a 
similar  fate  but  a  short  time  before  this. 
Crisp  and  I,  therefore,  did  not  despair. 

But  there  were  no  Sens  where  we  first  went 
ashore.  Doubtless  the  scarcity  of  visitors 
had  forced  them  to  move  about  in  search  of 
other  fresh  meat. 

Before  leaving  home  we  had  promised  our 
wives  that  we  would  call  upon  these  wild 
people,  and,  in  order  that  we  might  prove  that 
we  had  carried  out  our  intention  and  had  not 
spent  our  outing  lolling  in  white  flannels  be- 
neath the  palms  of  some  senorita-infested  wa- 
tering place,  we  made  up  Eddie  and  posed  him 
beside  the  bleached  carcass  of  a  whale.  It 
was  a  good  idea,  and  a  good  background,  and 
Eddie  would  have  made  a  fairly  convincing 
aborigine  had  he  not  insisted  upon  wearing 
his  red-flannel  undergarments.  The  resulting 

269 


OH,  SHOOT! 

photograph  might  have  got  by  at  that,  had 
we  needed  it,  but,  fortunately,  we  did  not. 

This  was  the  spot  where  Salisbury  had 
killed  his  seven  deer  with  one  round  from  his 
six-shooter;  so  we  went  hunting,  despite  the 
protests  of  our  pilot.  In  fervent  Spanish,  he 
assured  us  that  the  place  reeked  of  redskins, 
that  hidden,  hostile  eyes  were  no  doubt  fixed 
upon  us  at  that  very  moment,  that  unseen 
lips  were  smacking  in  moist  anticipation  of  the 
fancy  cuts  and  crown  roasts  into  which  we 
would  subdivide.  Our  knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage was  imperfect,  but,  with  a  fervor  equal 
to  his,  we  responded: 

" Muy  guano!"  which  we  took  to  be  the 
Spanish  equivalent  of  "very  good." 

Tiburon  is  a  sure  cure  for  buck  fever. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  deer  country  like  it,  except 
perhaps  the  plateau  north  of  the  Grand  Canon. 
The  island  where  we  landed  was  broken  into 
many  low  hills  separated  by  dry  watercourses, 
with  just  sufficient  brush  in  the  arroyos  to 
afford  cover.  The  slopes  were  open,  and  they 
were  crisscrossed  by  a  very  network  of  game 
trails  worn  deep  into  the  flinty  soil.  Those 
trails  led  everywhere.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  walk  a  half  mile  without  starting  some- 

270 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

thing,  but  it  was  not.  Either  the  game  lay 
close  or  at  this  season  it  was  farther  inland, 
but  even  so  it  was  not  long  before  the  enter- 
tainment began. 

Elmer  and  I  topped  a  steep  ridge,  and  as  we 
stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff  a  sudden 
movement  below  halted  us.  Out  from  the 
right  and  considerably  below  us  burst  a  buck 
that  looked  as  if  he  had  a  rocking-chair  on  his 
head.  He  was  perhaps  two  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  distant,  and  he  made  a  spectacle. 
Nature's  knack  for  protective  coloring  is  well 
illustrated  in  these  burro-deer;  in  repose,  they 
blend  perfectly  into  the  background.  It  is 
only  while  in  motion  that  the  eye  readily  picks 
them  up,  and  this  deer  was  certainly  in  motion. 
No  deer  of  my  acquaintance  ever  displayed 
more  motion  in  the  same  length  of  time.  He 
was  headed  across  stage,  but  it  was  clear 
shooting,  and  I  completely  ruined  his  whole 
evening.  I  shot  four  times,  and  was  rather 
surprised  to  find,  when  we  got  down  to  him, 
that  I  had  hit  him  four  times,  twice  within  a 
hand's  breadth  of  the  heart.  It  was  lucky 
shooting,  downhill  at  that  distance  and  at  his 
rate  of  speed. 

He  had  looked  small  from  the  top  of  the 
271 


OH,  SHOOT! 

hill,  but  after  he  was  dressed,  ready  to  pack 
out,  he  was  the  size  of  a  horse. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  dispute  Salisbury's 
statement  that  some  Tiburon  deer  will  "dress " 
four  hundred  pounds.  The  head  of  this  one, 
now  that  it  is  mounted,  is  so  heavy  I  can't  get 
a  spike  strong  enough  to  hang  it  on  my  wall. 

After  working  another  section,  where  we 
killed  a  couple  more,  we  set  out  to  find  the 
Sen  village. 

These  Sens  were  once  a  powerful  tribe. 
Mexican  history  refers  to  battles  between 
them  and  the  Yaquis  in  which  as  many  as  ten 
thousand  warriors  on  each  side  participated. 
But  the  Sen's  were  defeated;  they  dwindled 
and  decayed,  and  were  finally  pushed  off  the 
mainland  to  this  island  of  ill  repute,  where  the 
remnants  of  the  tribe  now  live.  In  view  of 
their  diminishing  numbers,  we  expected  to 
find  a  village  of  physical  wrecks,  a  handful  of 
decrepits.  But  we  were  mistaken. 

We  skirted  the  island  until,  with  the  glasses, 
we  made  out  a  weather-beaten  boat  drawn  up 
on  the  shore.  Running  closer  in,  we  studied 
the  place,  but  could  detect  no  indication  of  a 
village  or  any  sign  of  life.  Salisbury,  however, 
was  positive. 

272 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

"They're  probably  hiding  out,"  said  he. 

Our  pilot  agreed.  He  hazarded  the  opinion 
that  the  merry  villagers  were  doubtless  out 
in  the  brush,  hastily  splitting  kindling  and 
filing  their  teeth  in  preparation  for  our  landing. 

Not  until  we  came  to  anchor  did  we  see  a 
movement;  then  a  solitary  figure  appeared. 
Soon  another  and  another  joined  it,  until  there 
were  half  a  dozen.  Eventually  they  entered 
their  boat  and  paddled  out  toward  us.  They 
were  shy,  distrustful  at  first,  but  when  they 
recognized  Salisbury  they  cackled  like  guinea 
fowl  and  closed  in. 

One's  first  impression  of  these  people  is 
that  they  carry  picturesqueness  to  the  point 
of  vice ;  not  even  in  Greenwich  Village  can  one 
find  such  extremes  of  eccentricity  in  dress  and 
deportment.  But  as  for  being  decrepit — 
Dempsey  and  Babe  Ruth  and  Zbyszko  are 
similar  wrecks.  They  are  so  big  they  run  six 
to  the  dozen;  they  have  teeth  like  quartz 
mills,  and  enough  hair  to  stuff  a  mattress. 

They  had  brought  along  a  woman  and  a 
baby,  for  fear,  I  suppose,  that  we  might  not 
treat  them  gently,  but  we  felt  no  desire  to 
play  rough  with  those  boys.  They  had  on 
their  sport  clothes — all  that  was  mortal  of 

273 


OH,   SHOOT! 

some  garments  Salisbury  declared  he  had 
given  them  several  years  before — and  were 
ready  to  indulge  in  any  game  we  suggested, 
from  pillow  fighting  to  mayhem. 

Ed  beamed  amiably  upon  them ;  he  gesticu- 
lated hysterically  and  spilled  disreputable 
Spanish,  and  they  came  back  at  him  in  kind. 
He  was  their  friend,  he  said;  he  was  glad  to 
see  them  and  to  be  once  more  in  the  bosom  of 
the  tribe.  He  had  been  long  away,  but  his 
heart  had  hungered  for  Tiburon,  and  he  had 
seen  no  people  in  any  part  of  the  world  for 
whom  he  could  cherish  the  same  love  and 
affection.  Emotion  choked  him;  he  pressed 
the  chief's  hand  and  smiled  moistly  into  his 
eyes;  he  admired  the  baby  and  threatened  to 
kiss  the  mother.  Joy  so  heartfelt  as  his  was 
touching ;  his  voice  wavered,  broke.  He  turned 
to  us,  saying: 

"Don't  let  the  damn  thieves  aboard  or 
they'll  cut  our  throats." 

He  had  brought  them  gifts — oh,  riches  un- 
imaginable!— the  gleanings  of  his  industrious 
voyages  to  far  countries — not  pungent  spices 
and  precious  oils  from  the  Indies,  perhaps,  but 
something  better.  Look !  A  half  dozen  stand- 
ing collars,  size  seventeen  and  a  half,  and  not 

274 


ALL    SMILES,    WAITING   TO   BE   PHOTOGRAPHED 


THESE   SERIS   EVIDENTLY   WANTED  TO   BE   REMEMBERED   BY   US 


IT  WAS  QUEER  TO  FIND,  SO  NEAR  TO  OUR  OWN  BORDER,  A  PEOPLE  SO  LOW 
DOWN   THE   SCALE   OF   PROGRESS 


A  GROUP   OF   SERI   INDIAN   CHILDREN 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

badly  soiled  except  along  the  edges;  a  straw 
hat  with  half  a  brim,  and  neckties  of  purest 
silk  with  bouillon  polka  dots.  The  chief  an- 
nexed these  offerings  and  grinned  so  pleasantly 
that  our  Mexican  pilot  shuddered  and  backed 
into  the  whistle  cord. 

We  showered  presents  upon  our  visitors, 
and  practically  everything  we  gave  them  they 
either  ate  or  put  on.  When  we  signified  that 
we  were  going  ashore  for  a  more  intimate  pow- 
wow, they  shouted  vociferously  and  stirred 
the  water  to  foam  in  their  eagerness  to  go  and 
prepare  for  us. 

Prompted  by  affection  and  respect,  our  na- 
tive navigator  made  one  last  appeal.  These 
were  bad  people,  he  declared.  They  would 
probably  make  drum  heads  of  our  hides,  and 
how  would  we  like  to  be  served  up  with  dump- 
lings and  have  our  jewelry  worn  by  people  like 
these?  As  individuals  we  meant  nothing  to 
him,  but  his  friends  in  Guaymas  would  be 
bound  to  talk  if  he  returned  alone. 

There  were  perhaps  twenty  Seris  in  sight 
when  we  put  off  in  the  skiff,  and  they  came 
leaping  across  the  rocky  beach  to  welcome  us. 
They  dashed  into  the  water,  seized  the  boat 
and  ran  it  ashore,  then  examined  us  with  much 

275 


OH,  SHOOT! 

interest.  Meanwhile,  over  the  brush-tops  in 
all  directions  black  heads  with  hair  like  horse 
tails  were  lifted;  more  tattered  figures  ap- 
peared and  surrounded  us. 

Not  all  of  them  were  as  friendly  as  the  first 
few.  Some  were  merely  sullen;  others  were 
almost  openly  hostile.  I  undertook  to  photo- 
graph one  pair,  but  they  pulled  a  couple  of 
knives  as  long  as  a  ship,  so  I  canceled  that 
sitting.  More  than  once  some  coarse-fibered 
villager  got  insulting,  despite  the  fact  that 
there  were  ladies  present.  But  we  were  armed 
and  watchful,  and  on  the  whole  they  treated 
us  as  well  as  I  would  feel  inclined  to  treat  them 
if  they  descended  upon  my  house  in  a  body. 
Salisbury  had  assured  us  that  they  possessed 
no  firearms;  nevertheless,  in  exploring  their 
living  quarters  we  discovered  that  they  were 
quite  as  well  armed  as  we. 

Those  living  quarters  were  nothing  but 
windbreaks,  small  brush  corrals,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  village  that  looked  like  a 
roof.  As  for  food,  the  tribe  lives  altogether 
on  shore  dinners,  with  some  occasional  veni- 
son. It  is  probable  that  they  cook  some  of 
their  food,  though  not  all,  and  meal  time 
among  them  would  not  be  pleasant  for  a 

276 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

civilized  person.  But  as  for  being  cannibals 
—the  word  is,  of  course,  only  a  figure  of 
speech.  They  are  thoroughly  lawless,  and  the 
stories  of  their  evil  deeds  are  probably  true; 
doubtless  they  are  as  dishonest  as  some  of  our 
own  citizens,  but,  all  in  all,  they  do  not 
greatly  differ  from  some  of  the  foreigners  in 
the  crowded  quarters  of  our  great  cities,  and 
they  smell  very  much  the  same. 

It  was  queer  to  find,  so  near  to  our  own 
border,  a  people  so  low  down  the  scale  of 
progress.  They  do  not  even  appear  to  pos- 
sess any  of  the  customary  Indian  skill  at  handi- 
work. There  were  no  baskets,  no  pottery,  no 
cloth,  no  evidence  of  any  sort  of  industry. 
Nevertheless,  they  were  healthy,  strapping, 
energetic  individuals,  and  illustrated  the  agree- 
able theory  that  work  is  a  luxury  pure  and 
simple.  Doubtless  the  blood  will  run  out 
before  long,  for  there  are  but  two  villages  left, 
and  they  number  not  more  than  two  hundred 
souls. 

In  such  a  community  as  this  it  does  not 
take  long  to  see  the  sights.  When  they  had 
taken  all  the  gifts  we  offered  and  we  had  taken 
all  the  pictures  we  cared  for,  the  afternoon 
began  to  drag.  We  did  manage  to  get  a  little 

277 


OH,  SHOOT! 

thrill  after  all  of  our  party  save  Wilson,  Crisp, 
and  I  had  returned  to  the  Par.  While  we 
three  were  waiting  for  the  skiff  to  come  back 
we  noticed  two  or  three  of  the  more  disorderly 
young  bloods  arming  themselves.  Covertly 
we  watched  them  removing  their  hidden  rifles 
and  loading  them;  then,  when  they  started 
toward  the  brush  back  of  the  village,  we  called 
the  chief's  attention  and  told  him  by  gesture 
and  by  facial  contortions  that  this  was  no 
nice  way  to  speed  the  departing  guests.  We 
were  willing  to  speed,  but  whither?  Our 
protests  precipitated  a  scene.  The  chief  man- 
aged to  disarm  one  brave,  but  the  others 
evaded  him  and  made  their  get-away.  When 
we  discovered  that  the  women  and  children 
were  likewise  disappearing,  leaving  us  alone 
on  the  open  beach,  it  seemed  to  us  that  we 
bulked  as  big  and  as  conspicuous  as  three  dead 
mules  on  a  hot  road,  and  we  could  not  under- 
stand why  the  skiff  was  so  slow  in  returning. 

Salisbury,  we  discovered  later,  had  been 
watching  the  scene  through  the  glasses  and 
had  sounded  a  call  to  arms;  but  we  were  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away  and  our  attention 
was  distracted. 

Probably  the  whole  thing  was  just  an 
278 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

aborigine's  idea  of  a  practical  joke,  but,  be 
that  as  it  may,  I  have  no  desire  to  again  visit 
the  Sens.  I  have  had  so  much  practice  that 
I  can  tell  nearly  every  time  when  I'm  not 
wanted.  A  nice  time  was  had  by  all,  to  be 
sure;  but  in  view  of  the  chill  with  which  our 
actual  departure  was  enveloped,  I  have  lost 
interest  in  the  spiritual  progress  or  material 
good  of  those  Indians.  I  hope  Salisbury's 
collars  chafe  them. 

Salisbury's  sheep  country  lay  to  the  north 
of  Tiburon,  but  we  had  cruised  seven  hundred 
miles  since  leaving  Guaymas  and  our  gasoline 
was  short.  Another  norther  was  blowing, 
too,  and,  inasmuch  as  some  of  our  party  had 
to  get  home,  we  reluctantly  headed  back. 

As  I  write  this  there  are  items  in  the  daily 
press  about  Mexico — a  revival  of  resentment 
at  fresh  outrages  in  the  Tampico  and  other 
districts,  renewed  mutterings  about  interven- 
tion. I  cannot  believe,  in  view  of  our  past 
policy,  that  the  United  States  will  intervene — 
not,  at  least,  with  armed  troops.  I  may  be 
wrong — frequently  I  am.  Even  before  this 
sees  print,  something  may  happen  to  draw 
our  military  forces  across  the  border.  But  it 
is  unlikely.  It  is  doubtful,  moreover,  if  that 

279 


OH,  SHOOT! 

is  the  best  way  to  pacify  Mexico.  Bullets 
would  do  it,  but  dollars  would  do  it  equally 
well,  perhaps  better.  Mexico  needs  money. 
She  is  financially  discredited;  her  obligations 
are  unpaid;  her  industries  are  starving;  she 
is  bled  white.  She  needs  new  blood,  new  life. 
I  believe  a  half  dozen  of  our  strong  bankers 
could  restore  law  and  order  below  the  Rio 
Grande  more  quickly  and  more  lastingly  than 
an  equal  number  of  veteran  overseas  divisions. 
Given  money  to  work  with  and  given  honest, 
wise  men  to  handle  the  spending  of  that 
money,  she  can  pacify  her  own  rebellious  ele- 
ments, subdue  her  outlaws  and  Indians,  and 
enjoy  a  general  housecleaning.  Whether  she 
would  tolerate  American  supervision  of  that 
sort,  whether  she  would  permit  outsiders  to 
step  in  and  apply  honest  efficiency  methods 
in  her  departments,  is  another  matter.  After 
talking  with  thoughtful  students  of  the  sub- 
ject, I  know  there  are  some  who  believe  she 
would — and  if  matters  don't  mend  she  may 
have  no  choice.  The  idea  is  worth  thinking 
about. 

When  she  does  find  herself,  when  she  be- 
comes once  more  a  safe  and  agreeable  place  in 
which  to  live  and  to  do  business,  she  will 

280 


MESSING  AROUND  IN  MEXICO 

witness  a  boom  like  those  of  our  early  Western 
days,  only  magnified  a  hundredfold.  She 
will  once  more  become  a  land  of  promise  and 
of  plenty,  for  she  is  blessed  with  unrivaled 
riches  and  opportunities  ample  for  her  own 
and  other  peoples.  God  speed  the  day,  for 
the  world  is  waiting. 


THE  END 


SK 
33 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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